The Eagle and The Cross
by Ika Inku
Summary: The Eagle and the Cross, Assassin and Templar... locked forever in an immortal battle for the hearts and minds of humanity. Yet, they all have stories to tell, and finally they've been collected into one volume. [Shamelessly 18th Century Assassins and Templars centric]
1. Braids

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Note: Set in the Hell and High Water universe**

* * *

"Ow! Hey, stop tugging so much!"

"If ya hold still, it wouldn't hurt!"

"Ow! Aveline, I asked you to braid my hair, not yank it out!"

"I _am_ braiding your hair! You are just moving too much. Now be still!"

"Seriously, that hurts! How can I be still when it hurts!"

"You are such a big baby, Connor. It doesn't hurt that much!"

"It does! Ack! Gently, please!"

"If I do it gently it will fall out! Not man up, I'd hate to date a pussy."

"I'm not a cat."

"The insight of the sexually retarded."

"I take offense to that! Ow! Hey! You did that on purpose!"

"Maybe!"

"I'm your boyfriend you're supposed — ow! — nice to me!"

"In what universe and who said you were my boyfriend?"

"I'm not? I thought I was because—Ow! Not that hard!"

The door shot open at that moment and Haytham Kenway stood towering in the doorframe. He stared at the two occupants in the room. Aveline was sitting on the edge of the bed, with a hair brush, several tiny rubber bands and several bottles of hair products; her legs were also wrapped around Connor's shoulders.

Connor was sitting on the floor wearing only jeans and half of his hair was done in neat cornrows, while the other half was loose. Aveline had fistfuls of his son's hair in her hands, since she was working on another braided row. "What's going on here?" Haytham asked, suddenly suspicious. He didn't trust the dark skinned vixen around his seventeen-year-old son. Connor was still obtuse when it came to pleasures of the flesh.

"She's just braiding my hair Dad, nothing to worry about," Connor said with a grin. Aveline nodded. Haytham glared at the twenty-one-year-old woman.

"Alright, that better be all that you're doing. Aveline, keep your hands above his shoulders," Haytham said and slowly backed out of the room.

"Are you sure you don't want to move in with me?" Aveline asked, leaning over the top of Connor's head to look him in the eye.

"My dad would flip," Connor chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. Though he longed grew out of opening defying his father, he still liked to annoy him. He struggled to contain the impulse. "How 'bout I start spending weekends at your place?"

"Perfect," Aveline said and kissed the tip of his nose. "I'll finally be able to put a saddle on that wild horse."

"Huh?" Connor blinked. Aveline sighed and gave a sharp tug on his hair as she resumed braiding it.

"Never mind Connor, never mind."

* * *

 **Flashfiction that I had in the shower.**

 **Sexually retarded stems from the Naruto fandom. When referring to Sai, he's often called emotionally retarded since he has no concept of emotions. Since Connor is well aware that he has hormones but has no idea what to do with them… thus, he's sexually retarded. :P**

 **Every time you don't review a Templar kills a cute baby animal and a bit of my soul. So, think of Connor, the cute baby animals and my poor soul!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**


	2. Let Your Hair Down

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

The hustle and bustle of Boston pressed in around Connor as he walked down the street with his father. They were planning on what to do next in their hunt for Church. Connor wasn't really listening though, since Haytham's plan was rather complicated. A simply direct approach works best. He glanced at the man next to him, still trying to wrap his head around the fact Haytham Kenway was his father _and_ the Grand Master of the Templars. He had such romanticized images of his father as a child that the Templar label kind of soured them.

"Are you listening, Connor?" Haytham asked, jarring Connor out of his thoughts.

"No," Connor admitted not bothering to glance at Haytham. He knew the man was scowling at him. "You should let your hair down."

"I beg your pardon?" Haytham asked, stopping in his tracks. Connor turned and studied the man. Every bit the elite British colonial that wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty.

"You should let your hair down. I want to see if it makes a difference," Connor said.

"A difference in what, exactly?" Haytham asked, folding his arms over his chest.

"You're appearance. You look like a pompous asshole the way you are dressed now," Connor explained.

"I do not!"

"Would you just do it?"

"Why? It makes no difference as to what I look like. This arrangement is strictly temporary."

"Because I said so," Connor replied, glad he was able to finally use that stupid phrase against Haytham. It seemed to work.

"Alright," Haytham sighed and took off his tricorner hat and yanked at the red ribbon that kept his hair bound. He ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times, wiggling his hand back and forth. His grey hair fell an inch pass his shoulders. He jammed his hat back on before looking at Connor. "How do I look?" Haytham asked, feeling rather stupid with the ribbon in his hand.

"Hmm…." Connor stroked his chin as he looked his father… no _sire_ , this man will never be his father, up and down before he shot Haytham a grin. "Nope, still look like a pompous asshole to me!"

* * *

 **Flashfiction!**

 **Cause there is like no art of Haytham's hair not in a ponytail. According to Connor it doesn't change much. Thought of it while I was shopping at Wal Mart.**

 **Every time you don't review cute baby animals die by Templar hands! Think of the baby animals, Connor will never forgive you.**

 **Save an author (and cute baby animals); leave a review!**

 **Nemo**


	3. World's Edge

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

The snow crunched beneath his feet; it was deep and with each step, he sunk up to his knees. The wind was biting cold, another Massachusetts blizzard. His face stung, feeling tight and brittle; snow stinging his eyes; his hood blown back due to the wind.

Connor stopped, gasping for breath. The icy wind caused his lungs to burn due to the temperature difference. He looked at the trail of ruby blood in the snow. They'd be found regardless, unless the snows covered the blood. "The scent would remain though," Connor whispered, his breath coming out in little puffs. Already predators were following, stalking at a distance, watching and waiting for him to give in.

He shifted Aveline higher onto his back. There was a strange sucking-cracking sound as he did so. She moaned softly, a finger twitching. "Connor…" her voice was barely audible in the howl of the blizzard's wind.

"Hold on Aveline, hold on," he whispered and began to move. There was only one way to go, forward. He couldn't go back to the village or the homestead. Their enemies would expect him to. He had to get out of the colonies. Go north into Canada or south towards New Orleans. Before any of that, both he and Aveline needed medical attention.

The mission had been botched. He wasn't sure if it was because of him, his father, or Aveline. He had gone to his father in an effort to talk to him, see if there could be peace between Assassin and Templar. Aveline had begged him not seek such a route, to just kill him. He couldn't, this man was his father, regardless if he was a Templar: Haytham Kenway was his blood. She had left that night.

Words wouldn't work on his father, and the civil discussion Connor hoped to have was rapidly spiraled into blows. It didn't help that Aveline chose at that moment to attempt to assassinate Haytham from the beams in the ceiling. He had avoided the blow and shot her in the gut. Connor had attacked then, but he allowed his emotions to get in his way, and his father had jammed a hidden blade into his belly and jerked it upwards. He had moved out of the way before more damaged could be done, but Connor was sure his father got a nick on his liver. He had shot an arrow at Haytham, not truly aiming and getting his father's thigh, before he tossed his weapon down and slung Aveline onto his back and vanishing.

Now they were in the wilderness, slowly bleeding to death. He shivered. It was so cold. The cold seeped into his very bones. "Just hold on, Aveline," he muttered as the howl of the wind pressed in around them. If he remembered correctly, a cave should be up ahead, shelter would be a welcome, though he didn't think he'd have enough strength left to gather wood for a fire. He just had to keep moving.

A wolf howled. Connor froze, listening and judging the animal's distance. If the cold or blood loss didn't kill them, then the animals would. Connor swore and pressed on. His foot caught a hidden root and he tumbled face first into the snow, Aveline falling off his back beside him.

The wetness of the melting snow felt nice against his body. It would be so easy to give up. Just let the snow cover them up and the animals eat their bodies. He was so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of saving people that didn't seem to care, tired of this seemingly endless war between Templar and Assassin. Just tired.

"Get up Ratonhnhaké:ton!" a voice said. Connor swallowed. He hadn't heard that voice in years. Not since the fire when he was a child and his small simple world was shattered. "Get up Ratonhnhaké:ton!" the voice, his _mother's_ voice, said again.

Connor lifted his hear, tears freezing to his cheeks from the cold. She was standing before him as if she never died. "Ista?" he breathed, voice lost to the wind.

"You are strong Ratonhnhaké:ton. You must continue to fight!" Ziio said, her black braids dancing in the wind. The cold didn't seem to bother her. "Get up, Ratonhnhaké:ton! Stand and fight, my son!"

"Ista!" Connor shouted, surging to his feet, arm out stretched as he reached for his mother. He stumbled, fingers touching wood as he fell into the snow. She wasn't there, of course she wasn't, she had been dead for years. "Ista…" Connor breathed, wanting to give in to his tears. The wind howled in his ears, he heard the wolf again. _Get up_ , his mother's ghost urged him. Using the tree as support, he hauled himself up to his feet, blood leaking out of his wound, splashing on tree and snow. Aveline was nearby; snow slowly covering her. He walked over and picked her up.

Connor shifted her onto his back and continued, reaching the cave shortly after. It was a bit warmer in the cave, since it sheltered them from the wind, but he knew this would be their tomb. Gently, he set Aveline down. She stirred just enough to open her eyes. "Connor…" she breathed.

"Rest," he told her, brushing snow from her face. He allowed his fingers to linger a moment too long on her cheek. A smile flickered across her face.

"Could we… have been…" Aveline sighed, "something… more…" her eyes fluttered closed. Connor knew she wouldn't last much longer. Achilles never taught him much medical knowledge and he left before his tribe could teach him.

"Maybe," Connor said. He liked her. She was cunning and agile of mind. Her smile was dazzling and she was a great assassin, though too aggressive sometimes. They saw the world differently too. She had the background of a lady while he was raised among the traditions of his mother's people. Liberty and freedom meant different things to them. Despite their differences, he liked her; he could see a future with her. "If things were different," he said.

She didn't answer. Connor sighed and lay on his back, his hand naturally resting in hers. He was tired. He'd get up after he closed his eyes. Right now, he just wanted to sleep. The floor of the cave was cold, and his back sticky with Aveline's blood. There was a wolf howling outside and more answering, the pack was close. He'd get up and drive them off in a minute, he just need to close his eyes and rest for a moment.

Yes, rest. It sounded so warm and sweet. Connor allowed himself a small smile.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

Haytham stared at the bodies. The woman was clearly dead, frost outlining her features. She looked morbidly beautiful, the red of her blood a stark contrast to her clothes and the frigid beauty of her frozen features. By looks of her, she was dead before she froze. He knew the belly wound would end her; few people survived such a wound.

Haytham's eyes fell to the young man beside her, his son, a red stain on the right side of his stomach where he'd been stabbed. Connor's hand rested on the woman's and there was a smile on his lips. _So… they are dead then_ , Haytham thought as Charles left his side and kicked the bodies. They flopped lifelessly after each of Charles' kicks.

"They're dead, sir," Charles said. Haytham licked his chapped lips, nodding mutely. "What shall we do?"

"Take their hidden blades," Haytham said. He should have his son buried, but he had no taste for funerals. "Burn the bodies," Haytham ordered. He turned and limped down the hillside.

 _I'm gonna run to the edge of the world, run to the edge of the world. Need to find my way home, home!_ _—_ _Within Temptation_

* * *

 **Okay, this is angsty. Yes, I killed Connor, but not after consulting my beta reader first! I had this idea while driving to school. I was originally going to have it for my Templar!Connor AU (it will be in, but modified).**

 **As for Hell and High Water, I have the first part of the chapter written on paper! I'm not sure there will be a chapter coming tonight. I'm kinda stuck as to how to press on forward. I have some vague ideas for angst situations and such. So, I'm going to step away from it for a bit and give it a better look over, maybe edit the already posted chapters for typos and stuff.**

 **I recommend listening to _Edge of the World_ by Within Temptation while reading this. **

**Save an author; leave a review!**

 **\- Nemo**


	4. Charles Lee is a Poopyhead

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

It was like any normal Tuesday morning in the Kenway household. Haytham Kenway sat reading the paper with a cup of coffee in a mug that read _I'm a good dad_ , his wife Ziio had already packed away lunches for everyone and would just be putting bacon and eggs on their son's plate. Connor typically sat on the couch at watched on the early morning children's cartoons before his mother could call him to the table.

This morning however, Connor decided he wanted to read the newspaper comics. So, he sat next to his father, peering at the comics and slowly mouthing words he recognized. "Daddy, what is this word?" the seven-year-old asked, pointing to a word.

"Rabbit," Haytham replied after glancing at it. "You should know that word."

"I didn't know that's how it was spelled, though," Connor pouted, as his mother set down his breakfast, ruffling his hair as she went to get Haytham's breakfast of toast and beans. Connor chomped on some bacon and proceeded to stare at Garfield, putting his own dialogue into the speech bubbles.

"Ziio, remember I invited Charles Lee for dinner, he and I have some business to discuss on a case," Haytham reminded her. Connor looked up to watch his parents, noting his mother's frown and his father's neutral expression. Connor didn't really know his father's friends from work. Whenever they came over his mother either sent him to his room or made him play outside. If he was good, he got to watch TV, and sometimes if it was that Madaeleine lady, he'd play with Aveline, who was ten and came up with clever games.

"I know," Ziio replied, setting Haytham's plate down. "Ratonhnhaké:ton, finish up, the bus'll be here soon."

"Do I hafta go to school, today?" Connor whined.

"You are not skipping school, young man," Haytham snapped before Ziio could. Connor glanced at his mother, who slowly nodded. He pouted, violently stabbing his eggs with his fork. "Don't take it out on your eggs, Connor. They are innocent in this."

"I don't wanna go to school," Connor said. Haytham folded his paper down to look at his son.

"Give me three good reasons, and I mean well thought out reasons, _why_ you shouldn't have to go to school," Haytham said, "and if I agree with your reasoning then you may stay home for today."

"Okay," Connor said. "School's boring, you and Ista already teach me everything, and… Grandpa Edward says school is for chums."

"Your grandfather only has a high school education, and I don't agree with any of your logic, so as per our arrangement, it's off to school with you."

"Aww, man!" Connor hung his head. He heard the sigh of the bus stopping in front of his house.

"Bus's here sweetie," his mother said. Connor nodded, ate his last strip of bacon, chasing it down with the last sip of milk before grabbing his backpack and lunchbox. "Bye Daddy," he chirped, pressing a kiss to Haytham's cheek. "Bye Ista!" he hugged his mother and suffered her kisses, before he trotted out the door.

"You know," Ziio began, "he's going to think of three good reasons one day."

"Yes," Haytham agreed, "and by then he'll be in college and if he doesn't want to go to school that day, then he'll be out thousands of dollars later and the onus will be on him." Ziio chuckled before she picked up Connor's plate and brought it to the sink.

* * *

Connor stared at Charles Lee when he got home from school that day. He only remembered meet four of his father's seven co-workers. Charles Lee wasn't one of them. The only one he really liked was Shay, because Shay gave him candy and would tell him it was their secret. Connor wondered if Charles Lee would give him candy. "Do you have candy?" Connor asked, taking Lee by surprise.

"Uhm… no," Lee said, looking up from his paper work. "No I don't." Lee glanced at Haytham, who looked up from his work.

"Connor, go do your homework, Charles and I are busy," Haytham said. Connor frowned, huffing dramatically and muttering something in Mohawk. He decided Charles Lee was in the same category as William Johnson, nice but not likable. At least Johnson gave him candy _sometime_.

* * *

Connor stopped on the foot of the stares remembering that his father had promised him to help him ride a bike. He ran back into the room a grin on his face. "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" he skidded to a halt at Haytham's side. "You promised you'd help me ride my bike after school," Connor said, hands behind his back and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. His father sighed. It was never a good sign when he sighed. Sighing meant that he'd get a 'maybe' or a 'no' depending on the request.

"Connor, I have a lot of things to get done with Charles. That's why he's here," Haytham said, putting a hand on Connor's head. "Maybe another time, like tomorrow afternoon."

"But that's so far away," Connor whined.

"I don't mind if you take a bit to teach him to ride a bike sir," Charles butted in, "I have things under control."

"Are you sure?" Haytham asked.

"Yes, go," Charles said. Connor flashed the interloper a triumphant smirk as Haytham got up from his chair, which squeaked like a mouse.

"Go, I'll meet you outside," Haytham said. Connor's smirk grew wider before he dashed off to put his shoes on and get his bike out.

"Do you love Ista?" Connor asked as soon as his father was outside. Haytham frowned, Connor thought the expression made his father look like a cranky old vulture.

"Of course I love you mother, what type of question is that?" Haytham asked. Connor just shrugged, setting one foot upon the peddle as Haytham grabbed the handle bar's edge and the base of the bike's seat. Connor smiled, feeling safe and secure with the familiar scent of his father's aftershave wafting around him and Haytham's chest against his back.

 _He's mine stupid pug-face Charles Lee! You can't have him, he's my daddy!_ Connor thought. "Do you kiss Ista?"

"Connor," Haytham growled. Connor felt the warning rumble against his back. "I'm only out here for a short while, so you are either going to ask me silly questions or ride your bike, which is it?"

"I'll ride my bike," Connor mumbled.

"Good," Haytham pushed his weight against the bike. "Start peddling," he said and trotted the bike up to a good speed and let go. Connor laughed as he finally got the hang of riding a bike without training wheels.

"Look at me Daddy! Look at me! I'm doing it! I'm doing it!" Connor shouted. He let go of the handlebars, "Look Daddy! No hands! Whoa!" the bike wobbled and Connor grabbed it again, grinning all the while.

"Very good, I must go back inside now," Haytham said.

Connor stopped the bike, one foot smacking the pavement. "What? No!" Connor said. "I stopped so… you have to help me get started again!"

"Connor, you must learn to do this on your own, I have work to do. We'll work more on this tomorrow, I promise." Haytham said, before walking back into the house. Connor frowned, glaring at the house and wondering what this Charles Lee had over his father.

* * *

His mother called him down to dinner around five. Connor came out looking surly and he glowered at Charles Lee, who was asking Ziio if he could help with any since he was imposing upon them. His mother laughed and smiled, informing her guest that it was alright.

"If you're sure," Lee said, "by the way, you look nice tonight. Haytham's lucky."

Connor froze as his mother laughed, telling Charles Lee he was being too kind. No. He wouldn't tolerate this. This man-that-looked-like-a-pug had already stolen his father from him; Connor would not let him take his mother too. With a savage cry, Connor charged at Charles Lee and mustering all the strength his seven-year-old frame could gather: kicked Charles Lee in the shin.

This started off a series of change reactions: Lee yelped causing him to drop the pot of corn he was holding, Ziio shouted _Ratonhnhaké:ton!_ And _Haytham!_ , Connor continued to kick Lee in the shin and beat against his waist with his small fists shouting at Lee that he can't take his mother to that she was _his mother_ ; before his father dragged him away from their house guest. "Connor Kenway, you go to your room right now! Go! I do not want to hear any excuses and you won't be getting any dinner tonight! Go!" Haytham shouted, "I'll be up shortly to discuss your punishment with you!"

Connor scowled at his parents and at Lee before stomping his way up the stairs and slammed the door to his room. He flopped onto his bed and beat the pillow until he was too tired to do that anymore. He stared at the ceiling waiting for his father. He had already decided that he didn't like Lee but he never had a category for how much he didn't like someone like Lee. "He's a poopyhead," Connor muttered. It was the must insulting thing he knew, Barry Martin called Jessica Mills that on the playground once, and he got in trouble because of it. Connor frowned, though he better recant that, he knew another equally insulting word, Thomas Hickey taught him that word, and his parents were livid and told him never to say it again. It started with an F.

Connor wasn't sure how to feel about Thomas Hickey, the man gave him candy sometimes, not like Shay, but his parents always seemed so unhappy when Hickey was brought up. The door creaked open and Connor sat up on his bed. He was greeted by his father's scowl.

"Connor Kenway," Haytham began as he closed the door. "I'm very disappointed in you, what you did was uncalled for. Charles Lee is a friend of mine as well as a co-worker. You are to treat him with respect."

"He's a poopyhead," Connor stated. "And he said Ista looked nice."

"He was being friendly," Haytham pointed out.

"He can't have Ista! Ista belongs with you! She's my mommy and your my daddy and you two belong together! That's why that poopyhead got..." Connor screwed up his face trying to remember the line the cowboys said in movies when they killed the outlaws, "got what's comin' for him!"

Haytham pinched the bridge of his nose. "Good grief, Connor, you can't just go around attacking people you don't like!"

"Okay," Connor said. "I won't do that ever again… unless it's Charles Lee. He's a poopyhead and got what's comin' for him!"

"Connor, you are to go down there and apologize and you won't get a good tanning."

"No. I won't! He's a poopyhead!" Connor said.

"Connor Kenway, you will do as I say or you will get your backside tanned properly!" Haytham shouted. Connor stubbornly sat on his bed. "1…" Connor didn't move, "2…." Still the boy remained seated on his bed. "You know what happens when I get to three," Haytham said. Connor nodded. "3." Haytham said.

Connor calmly accepted his punishment, his butt stinging from the slap of the belt. He earned the same punishment the next time Charles Lee came over, and the next, until both his parents and Lee gave into nature and went along with Connor's hatred for Charles Lee.

It was simple: Charles Lee was a poopyhead and that was worse than being whatever that F-word Hickey told him about could ever be.

* * *

 **Lame ending is lame. This is a happy AU, where Charles is a nice guy and Connor is a little brat to him.**

 **Poopyhead is a royal insult in the language of seven-year-olds and you are awesome if you give them candy. Charles didn't give Connor candy.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**


	5. The Letters of Haytham Kenway I

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Haytham Kenway was dead.

Killed by her own hand.

Then why were letters with his handwriting and his signature at the bottom, still coming to her. Ziio swallowed as she stared at the letter in her hand, it was one of several dozen that had mysteriously arrived on Achilles doorstep. Ziio read it. She read it several times. It's flowery language moved her heart, remembering the days she spent with the man as he used his quick wit and honey-tongued to lure her into a sense of comfort.

Of course, that had been a mistaken. He was the enemy, a man on the wrong side of ideology. Being around him was dangerous, yet Ziio found such danger intoxicatingly seducing. He was handsome, with strong shoulders and jaw. His English was accented, unlike the English of the colonists born here, and his voice was a velvety baritone that made her shiver.

For Ziio, Haytham's strong hands drew her the most; hands of a killer, which would lightly trace up her arms, as he would whisper dangerously sweet things into her ear, his lips ghosting along the curve of her neck.

Ziio know that her desire for Haytham Kenway was forbidden, he was a Templar, the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite, while she was an assassin, one of two; all that remained of the Colonial Brotherhood. "Another letter?" a wheezy voice asked. Ziio looked up, to stare at the only other assassin in North America.

"Achilles, where's Ratonhnhaké:ton?" Ziio asked, not bothering to answer Achilles' question. She also wondered where her son was. She tried not to think about the fact that his father was a Templar, that he carried Templar blood in his veins. If she could have her way Ratonhnhaké:ton, would never dawn the white hood and red sash of the Brotherhood, yet that hope was shattered four years ago when her village burned, and they barely escaped with their lives.

"He's out playing," Achilles said. Ziio nodded. "Who keeps sending those letters?"

"The writer signs his name _Haytham Kenway_ ," Ziio said.

"You killed him though," Achilles pointed out as he leaned on his cane, "or did you?" the old man stared at Ziio. The Mohawk woman scowled.

"Are you implying that I'd leave that bastard alive? That I risk our Brotherhood, my son's life to allow some naïvely foolish fantasy to stay my hand?"

"Now, Ziio—"

"No, you are a fool, Achilles. Haytham Kenway _is_ dead! I felt him die as I plunged my hidden blade into his throat, watched as the light of life fade from his eyes, dying with my name on his lips!" Ziio spat, eyes hard and breathing elevated. "He loved me to the very end."

"He had to die, Ziio. He's a Templar."

"Don't you think I know that?" Ziio replied heatedly. She stood up, chair scraping away from the desk. She grabbed the bracers that contained her hidden blades and slipped them on, before she began to put on her white leather assassin robes, decorated with beaded eagles.

"Where are you going?" Achilles asked.

"Out, make sure Ratonhnhaké:ton, gets to bed on time," Ziio said as she drew up her hood, grabbed her tomahawk and left the house.

* * *

The silver of moonlight that peeked through the trees was all the light she needed. It was a chill wind for a summer evening, but it suited her find, since it's scent was crisp and fresh. A promise of rain lingered on the tip of her tongue, as she waited in the branches of an old oak tree. The letter writer said to meet near an abandon graveyard. The abandon village was only a few miles east. Ziio watched and waited. She saw a shadowy figure appear out of the darkness; a man, with a tricorner hat upon his head.

Ziio unsheathed her hidden blade and inched closer to the edge of the branch she was perched on. The man turned, the moonlight catching his back and illuminating the silver embroidery on his cape, the pattern was the same one Haytham had. Her blood ran chill in her veins, it couldn't be. Haytham Kenway was dead. She remembered killing him, feeling his hot blood splash her hands and face as she did the grizzly deed, the last lingering touch of his fingertips upon her cheek as he took his last gurgling breath.

"I know you're here," the man said in the voice that haunted her dreams, "Ziio."

She closed her eyes, taking a steadying breath and waited for him to walk pass the branch she was perched on, before she jumped down, landing silently beside him. She closed the gap quickly, pressing her blade against his side. "Don't move," she growled.

"Such hostility," the man said. "I'd figured you'd be happy to see me."

"Haytham Kenway _is_ dead!" Ziio hissed.

"Hmph." Ziio heard the smirk in that tone. "That's what _you_ think. The assassins have always been blind in the darkness."

Ziio growled, and pressed her blade in just a bit until she heard the man hiss. _Good! He's mortal, he'll bleed, and he can die._ Ziio thought pulling the tip of her blade out of his side.

"You shouldn't've done that Ziio," Haytham's imposter said. Ziio didn't have time to process it before he danced out of her reach and came up behind her, pinning her arms to her side. An owl hooted somewhere in the darkness, a sigh of the wind caused the leaves to rustle and Haytham's hauntingly familiar scent washed over her.

He let go of one arm to tug her hood away. "Who are you?" Ziio asked as she felt her face be revealed. He traced a fingertip along the curve of her neck and down the slope of he shoulder, she heard a soft _snick_ and felt the sharp edge of his hidden blade press along her arm. She shuddered, heart pounding as she felt his fingers run tantalizing up and down her one arm, his hidden blade trailing along the other.

"I'm sure you've figured out who I am by now, Ziio," the imposter sad. Ziio felt him press his nose against her hair, inhaling deeply. "By god I missed you," he breathed before pressing a sensual kiss to the back of her neck. "If only things could have been different."

"Yes," Ziio said, giving in and leaning against him. She wanted him so badly, missed him so badly. The forbidden fruit always tasted better. "If only," she agreed.

"Pity you're an assassin," the man whispered.

"Just for one night, let's pretend we aren't," Ziio breathed. She didn't care if this man wasn't Haytham or was Haytham, tonight he'll be Haytham Kenway, the father of her son.

"Are you sure? I'm a Templar remember," he whispered, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "I'm dangerous."

Ziio shuddered, wanting to drown in the maelstrom of contradictions that was Haytham Kenway. "So are assassins," Ziio replied.

"Touché," the man agreed. Ziio chuckled to herself, before turning around and pressed her lips against his. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to look upon his face afraid it'll break the spell. He returned the kiss just as hungrily as she had bestowed it upon him. She slipped her tongue into his mouth, coaxing a moan to rumble out of his throat as his hands gripped her hips, pulling her lithe and deadly body close.

She should do it now. Plunge her hidden dagger into his heart and be rid of this imposter and Haytham Kenway's memory once and for all. She didn't though, something stayed her hand; she chalked it up to her naïveté. She pulled away, pressing her forehead against his, keeping her eyes close, she trailed her fingers along his face. "Haytham," she breathed, before crushing her lips against his again.

* * *

Ziio found herself in the graveyard the next morning, with only vague memories of how she got there. The man she was with that night had vanished, leaving only a red ribbon behind in his place. She touched it, picked it up before inhaling the scent that still clung to the ribbon. It smelled familiar, like him. Closing her eyes, she shook her head. Haytham Kenway was dead. She undid a braid, only to redo it, weaving the red ribbon into it.

She ventured into Boston that day, determined to find the mysterious man that had visited her in the graveyard last night. First, she had to find a Templar, which was easy enough. She knew one by sight already, a drunkard by the name of Hickey. She even knew what tavern he frequented. It was in that tavern, she waited. She watched them come in one by one. A man she had seen around her tribe before Haytham came to this new world, a nervous deceitful man, a military man, one with a dog, and finally… their leader.

Ziio gasped.

* * *

 **So? Is Haytham alive or dead? _Undead?_ You decide! **

**I had the idea while listening to** _ **500 Letters**_ **by Tarja, and I had this idea set in an AU where Ziio is an assassin, that what if she killed Haytham yet he still sent her love letters even after he's supposedly dead?  
This is the product of that musing. I hope you enjoy. **

**How does Ziio know how to read? Well, she knows English and she is an assassin in this, I imagine when she went to get trained by Achilles (or whomever was Mentor before him in North America), she was taught how to read English.**

 **Every time you don't review Charles Lee kills a puppy. Think of Connor and the puppies! I mean, Connor will hate you forever if you let Charles Lee kill puppies!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**


	6. Goodbye, Father

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

The falling snow sucked out all the sounds of the world, save for the crunch of it beneath his feet. He didn't know what compelled him to save Haytham Kenway, but something did. Maybe it was the primal urge to protect those of your own blood, or may it curiosity. Regardless of the reasons behind it, Connor knew that his father wouldn't last much longer. Still he had to try.

A bird took off from a branch, snow falling down, with a soft _thump_. "Connor…" Haytham gasped, voice weak, when Connor stopped to get his bearings. Everything looked the same in winter, and he couldn't climb a tree to see where he was. Gritting his teeth, Connor pushed onwards, hoping he was going in the right direction, towards help.

Connor stopped again with evening settling. No sign of settlement, not sign of any help. Haytham Kenway's time had run out. Gently, Connor lowered his father to the ground, and stared at the man's ghost pale face. Despite the approach of death, Haytham Kenway's steel colored eyes were still bright. "Connor…" Haytham said.

"Father, I—"

"Don't… Connor…" Haytham forced out as pain laced through his body. "Let me… look upon your face…"

Connor stared mutely for a few moments, thinking the request was odd, but he granted it by lowering his hood. The wind sighed, icy cold and Connor felt it bite his ears. "This is my face," he said.

"Yes," Haytham agreed. "You look just like your mother… but… you have the Kenway jaw… and nose…"

Connor looked down, eyes finding the red oozing wounds on his father's chest. He didn't know how his father acquired such injuries, there really was no time to ask. He should end his father's life, put him out of his misery. The urge to flick his wrist and plunge his hidden blade into his father's heart was tempting.

"Do it," Haytham breathed.

"Do what?" Connor asked, looking up to stare at his father.

"End me, I won't last," Haytham explained. He grimaced again, squeezing his eyes shut. Snow began to fall, melting as it found its way to their faces. "Or are you not man enough?"

Connor frowned, and flicked his wrist, the blade appearing with an oddly loud _snick_. He should do it. His father was a Templar, and he was an assassin, doomed to fight and only ceasing when one or another was dead. Yet, in this moment, with the pure white snow falling around them, Haytham Kenway wasn't the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite. Now, he was a dying old man, looking upon the face of his long lost son for the last time.

"Do it, Connor."

"Could we have been…?" Connor stopped. Could they have been what? A family? On the same side? Something other than what they were destined to be.

"Damn you boy," Haytham growled, using the last of his strength to haul himself up. "Kill me!"

The action startled Connor. He forgot about his unsheathed hidden blade, and when Haytham's hand found its way to his neck, Connor jerked, the blade entering his father's chest, right between the ribs and into his heart. Haytham Kenway jerked, a sigh escape his bloodstained lips. Haytham's thumb brushed Connor's cheek. "I'm sorry…" Haytham whispered with his last breath before falling back down into the snow.

Connor pulled his blade out of his father's chest, and stared into his father's lifeless eyes. Connor sheathed his hidden blade and closed his father's eyes before standing up. "Goodbye, Father," he whispered as pulled up his hood. He left the body where it lay and vanished into the swirling snow.

* * *

 **I had this as an early morning dream. Don't ask how Haytham got mortally wounded or why Connor found him. I just had this idea, and it's kinda Star Wars-y. Plus, I like writing about Connor in snow for some reason. The imagery is just so hauntingly beautiful to imagine.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**

 **PS: Chapter 20 of HaHW will be up today!**


	7. Darkest Before the Dawn

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _Homestead, United States of America, 1800_ _—_ _Winter_

Snow drifted down lazily through the branches of the leafless trees. There was a bird call in the distance and the chattering of a squirrel, besides those and the sound of his own breathing the winterized forest was silent as a grave. Edwin Kenway crouched in a tree, scanning the landscape, looking for any sign of unusual movement.

He sighed, breath coming out in smoky white puffs. He hated this exercise, yet his parents insisted upon it. "To be a good assassin you must blend into your environment. There yet not there," his father would say. "Be someone that is so commonly seen that they forget you the moment they look away," his mother would say.

Edwin had accepted the lessons gracefully alongside his sister, honing skills that made both of them silently, deadly and efficient killers. He was sixteen, well will be come summer. He didn't see why he had to do these drills. He had already earned his hidden blades and his assassin robes. What was the point of doing this?

Edwin stood, stretched before jumping to another branch, then another, silently moving through the trees has his parents had taught him. The cold snow that clung to craggily tree bark numbed his fingertips, but he had already spotted his target in the distance; a man by the shape of him, silently moving through the snow in dark clothing, and if Edwin had to guess, a seasoned hunter. Edwin jumped up to a higher branch, and crouched, loosely holding the branch. He looked down at the man allowed his senses to expand, a golden tinge aura slowly appear around the man's silhouette. Edwin smirked. Target confirmed.

He withdrew from his senses, the golden glow vanishing as the lack of the forest sounds rushed loudly into his ears. Calmly, he stalked his prey from his perch in the trees, moving from branch to branch, until his target stopped, looking around. Edwin noted that his target also wore the white robes of an assassin. _Getting dull, Father,_ Edwin thought with something akin to cocky teenage amusement. He pushed down his hood, before leaping from the branch.

He fell with a nearly soundless ruffle of fabric, and tackled his target, grabbing his shoulders and throwing him to the snow. He pressed his right wrist up against the man's neck, eyes locked and he whispered, "Dead."

"No, you are," Connor replied coolly, his own wrist against his son's chest, right above the heart. "You got cocky, again." He pushed his son off him.

"I would have killed you," Edwin whined sitting in the snow. He flicked some away from his knee. Connor snorted, as he got to his feet. Edwin didn't miss how his father's hand went to his side, pressing against the old battle scar he received during the Revolution. His father never talked much about the Revolution, and Edwin didn't ask much about it anyway. The only thing his father had ever said about it was that it was tragically hollow.

"You are still too slow to strike. For an effective aerial kill you must kill your target as you land on them, not wait until you have them on the ground," Connor said as he walked over his son and offering the boy a hand. Edwin glared at it for a few moments before he accepted his father's hand. Edwin got to his feet with his father's help. "Plus, I saw you just as you leapt," Connor added.

"Is everything I do wrong?" Edwin huffed in frustration before blowing on his fingers to keep them warm. "I'm better than Zéphyrine," Edwin added. He ran a hand through his black hair, undoing the leather thong at his nape before gathering the loose locks and retying them.

"Zéphyrine is Zéphyrine," Connor said, "and she has her own skills to work on, her own weaknesses to improve on."

"Is that suppose to make me feel better?" Edwin grumbled.

"No, it is supposed to make you think. You hesitated in your kill, that can mean the difference between victory and defeat."

"I knew it was you, I would've struck to kill if it was a stranger," Edwin said, feeling defensive and trying to justify his actions. Of course, he hesitated; he attacked his father. Drill or not, he could never strike to kill his father. The sound of the slap echoed loudly in the winter landscape, and Edwin's shocked intake of breathe shattered it further.

"Sometimes," Connor said slowly, eyes growing icy and hard, "you must kill kin."

"Father," Edwin whispered, rubbing his cheek. He wondered what that was about, but with that look on his father's face, Edwin held his tongue. Edwin knew it was one of those subjects Connor refused to talk about and just waved in a dismissive manner and mutter, "read the journals."

Edwin looked down at the snow, and rubbed his cheek again. "I'll strike to kill next time, sir," he replied curtly. His father grunted his acknowledgement. "Is that all for today?"

"No," Connor said, "there's another reason why we're out here."

"Oh? What is it? Is it Templars? Do I finally get to kill one?" Edwin asked, his mood brightening. He hated the Templars, though the Templar Order had been struggling to regain its strength in North America since his parents had put an end to the schemes, every now and then one or two popped up, but they were swiftly snuffed out.

"Pull your hood up," Connor groused, grabbing the beak-like tip of his son's hood and tugging it over the boy's head.

"Father, we're on the Homestead, our land," Edwin said, stepping away, but the action was complete, his hood in place and beak-like tip making it slightly difficult to see. "We're safe."

"I do not think so; I have seen strangers on this land. Men I do not recognize nor trust, we are to investigate."

"Templars finally found us," Edwin hissed, he thought he felt the bracers on his wrists burn slightly. The hidden blades he wore once belonged to Haytham Kenway, his paternal grandfather and a Templar. On the upper inside of each bracer was the impression of the Templar Cross.

"Not every enemy is a Templar, son," Connor replied as he began to trek through the snow to a tree. He scaled the tree effortlessly, but as Edwin watched his father, he noticed how Connor favored his right side, where the old injury was located. His father didn't have the feline grace he once had, age caught up to them all eventually. Edwin gave a rueful snort before following his father into the trees.

* * *

Father and son zipped through the trees until they reached the pass between the ridge that protected the bay from the interior. "There," Connor said, pointing to the few campfires. "Those are the strangers."

"Are they Americans?" Edwin asked, since they clearly didn't look Native from this distance and he could hear a few words of English drifting up.

"Possibly," Connor replied.

"Bet they are Templar," Edwin muttered and flicked his wrist, his hidden blade making a soft snick. He bunched up, ready to spring when his father put a hand on his shoulder, stopping them.

"Patience," he whispered.

"Even if they aren't Templar we should kill them. This is our land! The people that live on this land, we protect! Isn't that our duty?"

"Are duty," Connor said, "is to protect humanity from the shackles of control. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. I have told you that before, son."

"But Father—"

"Enough, Edwin!" Connor snapped. "You skew my teachings. Do not mistake me when I say that the Templars must be destroyed as if they are evil. No, it is their ideology that I disagree with it. Yet, you cannot kill an ideology, only the men that preach it."

"Father, you misunderstand—"

"When did I put such a hatred for the Templars into you?" Connor asked. Edwin looked away, not replying right away. "Edwin?"

"It wasn't you. They did that themselves," Edwin muttered, with bitter resentment. "Remember the Whiskey Rebellion; remember when we went to Pennsylvania to see if the new branch had been set up properly? We were in one of the larger towns and some men stirred a riot. You tried to put a stop to it. I remember you pushed me towards the buildings and told me to wait for you among the rooftops. I had a great view of what happened below," Edwin sighed. "I saw several men agitate the crowd further as you tried to calm them. Then one man, I guess he was the ringleader, pulled out a knife and stabbed you in the shoulder. You went to your knees and I thought for sure he would kill you, but you killed him and slipped into the crowd. I saw something that day on that man, a pendent around his neck; it was in the shape of a red cross."

"Edwin," Connor began, lost for words.

"I was ten and I saw a Templar try to kill my father, because my father was trying to snuff out a riot." Edwin spat, and looked at his father. "That's why I hate Templars. They kill any that stand in their way, be the goal small or large, all that don't bow to the ideology of that accursed cross are damned in their eyes!"

"Edwin, hatred is like an infection, it slowly spreads until it consumes the soul," Connor said. "In your veins, your sister's and mine, runs the blood of a Templar. Do you hate me? Zéphyrine? _Yourself_?" Connor touched the bracer his son wore.

"Of course not," Edwin protested, "you and Zéphyrine aren't Templars!"

"Yet, my father was, his blood flows in your veins," Connor pointed out.

"It's different!" Edwin protested.

"Is it?" Connor asked. Edwin opened his mouth, then closed it and looked away. "Let us get a closer look at these strangers."

* * *

"Aren't you cold, Ed?"

Edwin looked up when he heard the nickname, and he saw his sister sitting on the roof. Edwin shifted, he was sitting near the chimney, and he could feel the warmth of the fire in the house. "Not really, what do you want?"

"Mama and Papa were looking for you," she said and scooted next to him, snuggling. "Papa told Mama about the strangers."

"I know, I was with him. They're hunters, trappers actually, looking for furs. Father let them stay the night."

"Do you think they are Templars? Papa said you suspected they are," Zéphyrine said.

"Maybe… I'm not sure anymore," Edwin sighed, and glanced up at the stars. He saw one fall and made a wish, then wondered if it would come true. Probably not. "Zéff," he asked.

"Ed?"

"Assassin and Templar… where do you stand?"

"With the Assassins, of course," Zéphyrine said. Edwin frowned.

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"Where… who's right? Who's wrong? Who's good and who's evil? I… I don't know," Edwin whispered. "Grandfather was a Templar… we have Templar blood in our veins. I hate Templars."

"You write journals," Zéphyrine mused.

"So?" Edwin wrinkled his nose. "What does that have to do with it?"

"Have you ever actually done what Papa said when we ask him questions about the Revolution? Have you actually read Grandfather's journals?"

"No, it's probably all Templar propaganda," Edwin said.

"They aren't, those journals are his life, from when he was ten to the day of his death," Zéphyrine said. "Papa killed him; Ed. Papa killed his own father."

"That would explain it," Edwin muttered, glancing down at the bracer in his hand. He pressed the mechanism and the blade snapped out, snicking softly. The steel glinted in the moonlight and etched into the base was the symbol of the Assassin Brotherhood and below that a name: _Miko_.

"Explain what?" Zéphyrine asked.

"Nothing Zéff," Edwin said as he pulled out his whetstone and began to sharpen the blade methodically. Edwin arched a brow when Zéphyrine rested her head against his shoulder.

"It makes me sad," she mumbled, "that there will never be peace between Assassin and Templar. We both ultimately want peace, but our… methods of achieving it are… opposite."

"That's how the world works, Zéff," Edwin replied. "There is always two sides to everything, always a good and an evil."

"Yes, but what is the good and what is the evil?" Zéphyrine asked.

"I think if we had the answer to that question we wouldn't need to ask it," Edwin said. Zéphyrine pursed her lips together before hugging her brother.

"I love you Ed," she said. He chuckled and patted her arm.

"I love you too, Zéff."

"It's just heartbreaking, that's all," she mumbled.

"In what way?"

"The Assassins wear tragedy like a cloak, all the great assassins Papa told us about had horrible things happen to them, even Papa. Yet, the Templars dawn a cloak of bitter victory, no matter how much they win, it's always at a terrible price."

"That's the cost of victory for both sides then," Edwin replied.

"Yes, but it's sad," Zéphyrine said, snuggling closer to her brother.

"The night is long, dark and cold Zéff, and it's always darkest before the dawn, Zéff, always."

* * *

 **This is my response to my feelings about the ending of Assassin's Creed 3 and Assassin's Creed: Forsaken. I wrote this to Breaking Benjamin's Dark Before Dawn album, which I just really think captures Connor's story very well… irunno. The game's ending is thoroughly depressing, and as much as I hate Ubisoft for doing it that way, the fact that I feel so strongly about the fates of Connor and Haytham means that there was excellent story telling on their parts.**

 **The Whiskey Rebellion is a real think that happened about ten years after the Revolutionary War. I thought it would be an interesting thing to insert Templars trying to take over or something.**

 **Edwin… oh Edwin. You do not know how much I love you. :3 If you haven't guessed it, he and Connor are very close. I also love his bond with his sister, Zéphyrine.**

 **I'm actually planning a storying featuring these two as mains. It takes place during the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Connor's missing and Zéphyrine and Edwin go on a search for their missing father, that leads them to track down L &C. Don't know if I'll post it, but…. **

**The reason why Haytham has two hidden blades in the story is because he has two hidden blades in the game! And I consider the game more canon than Forsaken. ^_^**

 **My favorite part of the fic is Zéphyrine's view on Assassins and Templars.**

 **Edwin is 16 and Zephyrine is 15.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **-Nemo**


	8. Never Got to Say

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

She was beautiful. Her beauty eclipsed the moon and stars, even the breathtaking sunrises and sunsets that he saw on this wild untamed land called America. She was free as the wind and untamed as the virgin forests she lead him through; proud as the soaring eagles and fierce as the wolves that howled in the night, yet gentle as a spring rain. She smelled of pine and wild flowers, he laughter sounded like a babbling brook and her smile struck his heart like lightning. Yes, she was beautiful.

"Haytham," she asked, her hand on his cheek.

"Erm… hmm, yes?" Haytham looked at her, this beautiful native woman with eagle feathers in her hair that was black as a raven's wing. "What is it, Ziio?" he asked, taking hold of her hand. He removed it from his face and kissed her palm. He watched her shiver at the intimate action.

"Your fishing pole," she said, jutting her chin in the direction of the river they were camped at.

"My dear," he chuckled, his eyes hooding slightly. Then he followed her gaze to the river and any thoughts of an ungentlemanly nature vanished as he saw the stick he set into the ground jerk once, twice, thrice, before popping free. "Good god!" Haytham shouted, scrambling to his feet and running towards the river before whatever mad fish he inadvertently hooked drug his crude fishing pole into the river. Behind him could hear Ziio's laughter and the clap of her hands. He drove for the pole but the fish tugged it free and it slipped into the river. "Damn." Haytham hopped onto the nearest rock, then another it. Lucky was with him, for the pole was wedged between two rocks and the hooked fish was struggling frantically to get free. "Got you," he growled and picked up the pole and attempted to pull the fish out of the water.

The fish was hell-bent on living, and locking Haytham into a mortal struggle with the fish. He tried to find purchase on the slippery rocks, he cursed and grumbled, finally losing his balance (and the fish) and falling backward into the river. He surfaced, grabbed his hat before it floated away and looked in the direction of the riverbank. Ziio hooted with laughter, a smile on her lips and dimples in her cheeks. Haytham wondered if their children would have those dimples.

He dismissed the thought quickly as he realized she was laughing at him and the fool he made of himself. His cheeks and ears burned. He crawled out of the river, boots and clothes soggy. Haytham marched up to the cackling Mohawk woman. "You think that was funny?" he asked, folding his arms over his over his chest. Ziio looked up at him, trying to contain her mirth.

He heard a frog croak and then saw the animal leap off his head, for it had hid in the folds of his hat, and land on Ziio's head before hopping into the underbrush. That set Ziio into another round of giggles. "Enough Ziio, it's hardly that funny," he groused as he sat down next to her with a squelch. Ziio snickered as she took his hat off and tugged the ribbon that kept his hair back.

"So it can dry," she said, running her fingers through his damp hair. Haytham continued to scowl. "No need to scowl, Haytham. Not everyone excels at fishing," Ziio said. He snorted, before he grabbed her chin.

"I don't appreciate being laughed at," he said, his voice low. There was a spark in her eyes that set his soul on fire.

"Then maybe you should correct your fishing methods," she countered.

"Heh." He smirked. He loved her sharp tongue, even though she often sharpened it on him; still her wit was something he loved about her. "Fair enough my dear," he replied, he let go of her chin and stroked her neck, his thumb gracing over her windpipe. "Ziio, I—"

She kissed him then, silencing him. In the back of his mind, he was both glad and disappointed that she did so.

* * *

It was almost spring. He could tell. The days were starting to get longer and the weather warmer. It rained more, casting a gloomy atmosphere, yet one that held hope for summer sunshine. Haytham knew he shouldn't be doing this. If she caught him or one of her people caught him…

He closed his eyes, not wanting to think about that royal mess. He knew how to hide in plain sight, and he was far enough away from the group that he had to use a spyglass to see them clearly. Still, Ziio always had an uncanny knack for knowing when she was being watched. Like now, how she straightened and looked in his direction. Her belly swollen with child, _his_ child. He lowered the spyglass and calculated the dates, realizing that she would be giving birth soon. He wondered if the child would be a boy or a girl or if Ziio would even contact him about the child's birth.

He raised his spyglass again to study her. Her waddled when she walked, supervising the gathering of the firewood more than helping. Every now and then, she would glance in his direction, as if she knew he was there, and only once did he watch her carcass her round belly.

He felt bitterness rise up in his throat, realizing that he could have been down there with her, waiting with anxious excitement for their child to be born. Instead, he was sitting up here in a tree watching her through a spyglass and wondering if he'll ever get the chance to make things right between them or if he even wanted to. Sighing, he lowered the spyglass and snapped it shut. "Ziio, I…" he stopped, shook his head before climbing down the tree and heading back to Boston.

* * *

He still couldn't get over the fact how much the boy looked like his mother. The mouth, nose and jaw were clearly Kenway features, but the dusky skin, black hair, and amber eyes… all Ziio's. Even his English sounded like Ziio's, Mohawk sounds nearly vocalized before English sounds; the way he walked and held himself and spoke down to him as if he was nothing more than an ignorant savage unwise in the ways of the world. It made Haytham's heartache at the thought.

The boy resembled him too. His strength of conviction, his own brand of righteousness, his reserve and quite nature, those things Haytham recognized in himself and his son. So to say Haytham was surprised when Connor came that night to Fort George would be an understatement. He knew from the moment rumors about a young assassin began flittering around Boston that his days were numbered. He just didn't know when.

The look of profound grief stricken agony in Connor's eyes would stay with Haytham in his final moments. He could have sworn the boy was crying as he did the deed, almost as if he didn't want to do it, almost as if he had wanted to find another way to resolve this conflict.

As his head began to spin and heart began to slow, Haytham watched his child walk away. Connor held himself straight and tall, in an almost mechanical fashion, as if he was afraid to give in to the pain. Haytham felt his hand twitch, wanting to reach out to his son. He should say it; use the very last drop of his strength to say those three precious words. He opened his mouth. "Connor, I…" he sighed too softly for anyone to hear over the roar of canon fire, and in that moment his heart stilled and death embraced him.

* * *

 **Yeah… angsty…**

 **The last bit was supposed to be Haytham thinking of Ziio since he sketched her likeness, but it somehow morphed into his final moments. This family is so tragic. Truly, the Kenway name must be cursed. I LOVE THEM! :D**

 **Save an author, leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**

 **PS: Who wants a squeal to "The Letters of Haytham Kenway"? Stomp and shout aye if you want one or whimper and say nay if you don't.**


	9. Sniffles

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Dedication: MohawkWoman, since she and I both share a weakness for Haytham being a dad and Connor just being cute.**

* * *

Connor swung his backpack into the box by the kitchen, coughing a bit as he did so, before heading into the kitchen. "Ista, Ista, I'm back," he called with a sniff. Ziio turned to see her boy, looking like he just woken up. Connor sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

"Don't do that Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio chided as she came over, snagging a tissue and wiped her son's nose. "How was school?"

"Okay," the boy mumbled. "Ista, I can do it myself." Connor took the tissue and blew his nose. "Dad's gonna be home tonight or is he working late?"

"He said he'll be home tonight," Ziio replied, parting her son's hair, "said he'll be home around dinner."

"That's a first," Connor grumbled.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, your father works very hard to provide for this family. He has a very demanding job," Ziio told her son sternly.

"How is being a lawyer demanding? He sits behind a desk all day."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio growled, smacking his cheek lightly with her fingertips.

"Sorry," Connor mumbled, grimacing as he rubbed his cheek, even though the smack was more shocking than painful.

"I'll make you some tea—"

"Can you make it like Dad does? With biscuits?"

"Biscuits?" Ziio arched a brow.

"Oh… Cookies. Tea and cookies?"

"No, you aren't getting cookies. You're ill," Ziio said, with her hands on her hips. Connor pouted, juggled the used tissue from hand to hand before tossing it into the wastebasket. It hit the rim, tittered before falling in.

"Score!" Connor pumped his fist into the air. "See, I'm not—" a coughing fit over took him. "Sick…" he croaked.

"Very convincing, take a bath, get into your pajamas and crawl into bed. You aren't going to school tomorrow, I'll bring you up some chicken soup and tea," Ziio said, pointing to the stairs.

"I'm not that sick," Connor protested, only to cough into the crook of his arm. "It's just a cough and some sniffles."

"Right, and I thought I had a 24-hour stomach flu, turned out I was pregnant," Ziio said and pinched her son's cheek, a teasing smiling on her lips. "Now, go do as I say."

"Fine," Connor sighed in an overly melodramatic fashion. He walked with dramatized heavy footsteps and slouching as he climbed the stairs. Ziio shook her head, before opening the cupboard and grabbing a can of chicken noodle soup. She turned the electric kettle on as she headed towards the stove.

* * *

Connor looked up from his Gameboy as the door opened. "Connor," Haytham said, "How are you feeling?"

Connor gave a nonchalant shrug; sniff loudly. "Okay," he said, glancing at the clock on his nightstand. "You're back early."

"I told your mother I'd be home in time for dinner," Haytham said as he entered the room, hands clasped behind his back. "See she already fed you." Haytham looked at the mug of half-drunk tea, "Didn't drink your tea, though."

"She didn't make the tea right," Connor grumbled, going back to his video game, "and she didn't give me any biscuits." He heard his father chuckle at his comment.

"At least I instilled good taste in tea, the rest we'll work on," Haytham said and sat down on Connor's bed. He pressed the back of his hand against his son's forehead. "Well, at least you don't seem to have a fever." He ruffled Connor's hair before setting his hand into his lap.

"It's just sniffles. I'll be better by tomorrow," Connor said, smiling up at his father. "You'll see."

"Uh-huh, when did you get so wise in the ways of illness? You're only what, five?" Haytham said.

"I'm nine Dad," Connor replied, looking up at his father. "You should know that, we went to the zoo and I rode the pony and the monkey threw poo at your face."

"Yes, that terribly rude monkey," Haytham agreed wistfully. "I remember now, you laughed so hard soda came out your nose. I seemed to recall that I would punish you if you ever so much mentioned that again."

Connor snorted. "Like you'd really follow through on that."

"Oh, my dear boy, you misjudge me," Haytham said in a dramatic spooky voice, "I always follow through on my threats! C'mere you, time for your punishment!" Haytham declared and began to tickle his son. Connor squirmed, laughing loudly, the blankets of his bed getting tangled around his legs. "Beg for mercy!"

Connor took in a breath to beg, but instead went into a coughing fit. Haytham stopped his tickling, resting a hand on his son's back. He could feel the cough vibrate through his son's small back and hear the wet rasp of the hacks as Connor seemed to try to expel his lungs. The coughing fit passed as soon as it came on. "Mercy," Connor wheezed, "Mercy Dad, mercy."

"Haytham, dinner!" Ziio called from the base of the stairs.

"Be there in a minute!" he shouted back. "Now Connor, I want you to focus on getting better, just stay in bed and I'll bring you some proper tea after dinner."

"I'm not that sick," Connor protested as his father rose to his feet and picked up the tray with the bowl and mug on it.

"No, but you're well on your way to getting there," Haytham said, and closed the door to his son's room. Connor gave a frustrated groan before going back to his game.

"Oh, a Pikachu, I need one of those," he said to himself.

* * *

He didn't care if he got in trouble or so something horrible in there. He'll break the sacred rule of not entering his parents' room after bedtime just this once. His head hurt and he felt hot and cold at the same time. Connor wondered how he got worse, it was just a case of the sniffles right? Connor twisted the doorknob to his parents' room and slipped it.

It was silent. Connor glanced around at the decorations in the room, mostly tribal items that his mother made, though the cross cutlasses were his father's. Apparently, an ancestor was a pirate and the swords have been passed down from father to son since the 1700s. The Pride of the Kenways, he remembered his grandfather telling him once, when he came to visit from England. Connor suppressed the urge to cough, before he made his way to his mother's side. "Ista?" he shook her arm. "Ista, wake up I don't feel good."

Ziio muttered something in her sleep, twitched her arm and rolled over. Connor sighed and swallowed several times to keep from coughing. He looked over his shoulder at the wall, where pictures hung. Most of them were pictures of him from the day he was born to now, some where of his parents, and in the center of the picture collection was their wedding photo. His parents got married twice, one in the English fashion and the other was the traditional Mohawk way. Connor still thought his father looked extremely out of place in traditional Mohawk clothing.

The boy made his way around the bed, to his father's side. Haytham's nightstand had three-way picture frame, on the left most frame was a group photo of the men he worked with, Connor stuck his tongue out at it because it had Charles Lee. He hated the man because the man always treated him like he was some terrible pest. Well, the feeling was mutual. In the middle was a picture of his parents together and the final one was him. The rest of the items were his father's phone, book, and alarm clock. "Dad," Connor said reaching out and shaking Haytham's shoulder. "Dad, wake up I don't feel good."

Haytham woke up, grumbling in a sleep voice. "Wha… Charles…"

"I'm not Charles Lee!" Connor snapped, and gave into a coughing fit. He felt his father's eyes on him. "I don't feel good," Connor repeated.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton?" Ziio asked, waking up. She pushed herself up slightly to look over Haytham's shoulder.

"Go back to sleep, my dear, I'll take care of it," Haytham said.

"You have work in the morning," Ziio protested, she glanced at the watch she wore at her wrist, "it's two in the morning, you have to be up in four hours."

"I'll manage, go back to sleep," Haytham said, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Hm." Ziio snuggled down into the bed again, wiggling into Haytham's warm spot once he vacated it.

"Alright Connor, let's go," Haytham said, hand on his son's back to steer him out of the room. He grabbed a robe as he did so.

"Sorry that I woke you," Connor mumbled once they were out of the room.

"Nonsense, it's my job as your father to take care of you, even if it's in the middle of the bloody night," Haytham replied, walking down the stairs, his son by his side. He glanced at Connor. "Don't pout, we'll watch late night reruns of the Munsters and the Three Stooges."

"You have to work tomorrow," Connor said.

"And I'll manage, I'll call in sick if I have to," Haytham said, steering his son to the kitchen and turning on the light. He began to rummage through the drawer. "Where is that blasted thing… ah, here it is," he pulled out a thermometer, "stick this under your tongue." He put it into Connor's mouth before pressing the button. He began to make tea and get children's cold/fever medicine. The thermometer beeped and Haytham took it from Connor's mouth. "A hundred degrees, well you do have a slight fever," he grumbled as he set the thermometer down and poured out the dose of medicine. "Drink this," he said.

"Is it grape? I hate grape," Connor grumbled, eyeing the medicine suspiciously.

"Drink it Connor, it'll make you feel better. Don't think to try my patience. It's too early in the morning for such antics," Haytham growled. Connor huffed, taking the offered medicine and swallowed it one gulp.

"Ugh, it was grape!" Connor gagged.

"Here's the cough syrup, it's not any better," Haytham said, handing him another little plastic cup. Connor huffed, put took that too, making a face as well. Haytham tossed the cups into the sink, put away the medicine and the thermometer before leading Connor to the couch. "Let's see what mindless show we can watch for a few hours," Haytham muttered. He found reruns of the Three Stooges, and lied down on the couch. "C'mon, snuggle close," Haytham said. Connor grinned, and wormed his way between his father and the couch.

They stayed like that for a few moments, chuckling at the antics on the TV. Connor yawned, eyes getting droopy and fingers fiddling with a loose thread on Haytham's pajama top. "Dad… did you can Ista get married because of me?"

Haytham glanced down at his son. "What brings on this question?"

"Well, it's just that… I knew you and Ista separated before I was born and you guys got married shortly after I was born… so, I just thought… never mind, I'll go to sleep now," Connor whispered and placed his head on Haytham's chest, listening to his father's heartbeat and steady breathing. He stiffened when he felt his father's hand on his back.

"Connor, tell me, what did you think?" Haytham urged, gently. Connor looked away.

"I just thought that… maybe… maybe you didn't want me, and that's why you left, only you changed your mind and came back," Connor mumbled, before hiding his face in his father's armpit. "I'm sorry… don't be mad."

"I'm not mad," Haytham said. "The reason your mother and I split, briefly, was because some things in the case I was working on didn't go… right. The man got off when he shouldn't've because the cops didn't do their jobs properly, which led me to not doing my job properly. Your mother didn't understand that so she blamed me and left. She called me a few days before you were born to tell me she was pregnant," Haytham said, remembering that phone call.

* * *

He never expected her to contact him after their break up, he was content to live out his days lonely and loveless, drinking away his woes with the others at the DA's office. Any chance he had at a family dashed to dust. Yet, she had called and he came. He certainly wasn't prepared for her being pregnant or the pathetic way she looked at him. Maternity clothes didn't really suit Ziio, it made her look twice as old, oppose to the twenty-nine year old he knew her to be. "Haytham," she muttered, her slim and on her stomach.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked in way of greeting. She glared at him and he wondered what he said or implied to cause her to glare at him like that.

"Come in, I'll explain," she said leaving the door way and waddling towards the couch where she sat down with a sigh. He glanced around in the hallway before entering her tiny apartment and closing the door behind him. He walked over to the couch and sat next to her. They lapsed into an awkward silence.

"So… uh… I'm the father right?" Haytham asked, then realized he probably shouldn't've said that, began to back-peddle, "I mean… even if I'm not the father, I'd love the child as if it were my own."

"You're the father," Ziio said in a weary voice, though there was a smile on her lips as she ran her hand over her belly. "No other man would put with me long enough to get into my bed." She gave a little amused chuckle. "Other than you."

"I'm flattered," he said. "Any names? Is it a boy or a girl?"

"A boy, his name will be Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio said, "though I also like Connor as a middle name. I knew a Connor once… an old friend from my hometown, died overseas."

"Connor is a good name," Haytham said with a nod. "Why didn't you tell me, Ziio? I… I would've stayed, I would've done something," he took her hand and recklessly said, "I love you."

She stiffened, refusing to meet his gaze, instead staring at a picture frame that was face down on the end table. "You're hear now, that's all that matters. I didn't even want to tell you, but Achilles urged me to call you."

"Well, at least someone can get through to you," Haytham muttered, thinking of the old man Ziio was friends with. "It's cleared up now, Braddock is in prison for life."

"I read it in the papers," Ziio said, she looked at him. "Why did you come back?" she asked.

"You called and told me you were pregnant, I had to come. What was I supposed to do? Congratulate you on your coming bundle of joy?" Haytham asked, before standing up. "Look, I'm sorry about the Braddock mess, I never meant to lie to you. I thought it was a slam dunk case, open and shut, the cops fucked up on their end and… I felt terrible about the fact you thought I used you in some fashion," he looked at her, like a kicked puppy, "truly I am."

"Haytham, I know. I called you to… I want you… I want you be in your son's life," Ziio said. "That's why I called. I want… I want us to try and make amends."

"Of course, Ziio," Haytham said, sitting next to her. "Of course I'm willing to work through our problems and put our relationship in order." He looked way, sighing and ran his hand through his hair. "I am willing to —"

"Shh," Ziio said, pressing a finger to his lips and taking his other hand. She pressed it against her swollen abdomen. "He's kicking," she whispered, a grin on her face. Haytham frowned, not feeling anything for several heartbeats but then suddenly a tiny foot or maybe a hand pressed up against his palm. He thought his heart stopped for a moment as disbelief and joy mixed within him, a smile spreading across his face.

It was real, so very, very real. A new life was within Ziio, a being created out of love for each other… their son. "Ziio," was all Haytham managed to say.

The next days happened quickly, and the labour was the worst part, at least for him. Ziio took everything in the same steely stride she always had and birthed a healthy baby boy on April 4th. Haytham walked into the room in the maternity ward holding a stuffed bear with a blue t-shirt that read _It's a boy!_ And set it down on the table besides Ziio. She didn't notice, too entrance with the baby in her arms. "Look Haytham, look at our son," she whispered and he peered down at the baby, fast asleep, in her arms.

Haytham stroked the child's soft cheek and if by instinct the baby, no… it wasn't just a baby, it was _his_ baby, his _son_ … Connor; wrapped his tiny fingers around Haytham's.

"You're crying," Ziio noted.

"I'm not," Haytham protested, as he wiped at his eyes, "just got dust in them… that's all." He heard Ziio snort in derision.

"Hold him," she said and offered the sleeping newborn to him. He balked, trying to think of an excuse to not hold his own child, failed and awkwardly accepted baby. Connor whimpered at first, not liking being shifted between his parents, but he settled down once Haytham brought him to his chest.

"Hello Connor," Haytham said, "I'm your father… Haytham… welcome." Haytham smiled, before looking at Ziio. "Marry me."

"What?" Ziio arched her brow.

"Marry me… please," he said.

"Do it properly and I'll give you my answer," Ziio replied. Haytham rolled his eyes, but agreed, thankful for that phone call.

* * *

Phone calls… he should make one and tell them he can't come into work today. It was already four in the morning and he was still up, though Connor was fast asleep on his chest. He shifted, swinging his legs off the couch and scooping up his son, who snorted in his sleep. Haytham walked up the stairs, set Connor into his bed, before heading to his own. He crawled in on Ziio's side and pulled her up to his chest.

"You're back late," she mumbled.

"Took a trip down memory lane," he said, "I'm calling in sick today. Just too tired to deal with work."

"Hmm… or you're coming down with something," Ziio said as she rolled over and touched his forehead with the back of her hand.

"Nonsense," Haytham said, pulling his head away and pecking her lips, "I'm—"

"Ista? Dad?" Connor called, Haytham and Ziio looked at each other and then at their son, who was standing in the doorway.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, go back to bed," Ziio whispered.

"No… I… can I sleep with you?" Connor asked. "I don't feel good and…"

"Come here," Haytham said.

"Haytham," Ziio protested.

"It's late, I'm tired, he's sick and tired, it's easier to just let him stay with us then fight about it," Haytham sighed as Connor crawled onto the bed and wormed his way between his parents. Haytham smiled as he felt his son sandwiched between him and Ziio.

"Dad, Ista… I love you," Connor whisper.

"Love you too," Ziio replied.

"Yes, indeed, love you too," Haytham muttered sleepy before pulling his wife and child closer to him and fell asleep.

* * *

 **Got talking with MohawkWoman and I mentioned cute little Connor being sick and well, this is the product. And I wanted to watch Kung Fu Panda 2 then play Shadows of Mordor (the game play is very similar to AC), but THIS demanded to be written, and then it got out of hand and blah! I'm just done. Follow my cat's lead and go to bed.**

 **Connor's playing Pokemon Crystal, FYI.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**

 **PS: I see you followers of the story! It would be nice and encouraging if you left a review! Lazy bums.**


	10. Friendship

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

The humans on the docks bustled about in the early morning light. Rough voices shouted harsh words to one another, hurting his sensitive ears. He laid them flat against his head as he bunched himself up against a vendor's stall, tail wrapping itself around his paws. He watched the humans walk to and fro, carrying things of all shapes, sizes and smells. One smell caught his attention and his whiskers jerked forward, eyes scanning the crowd of people. He sniffled the air, opened his mouth slightly to analyze the scent better. He found it.

Fish.

He watched the human carry the net full of silvery fish to a stay across the muddy road. He couldn't let the humans catch on to his plot so he busied himself with cleaning his paw, pulling at the dirt beneath his claws. He shook his head as he flicked his tongue out to dislodge the grime. It didn't taste like food. His coat was also in disarray, and he ran a few quick licks down either side in an effort to make it lie flat. It refused, damp from the early morning rain. Oh well, he'll give himself a proper grooming once he returned to his nest.

He arched his back, yawning to show off his fangs, stretching to reveal his claws; he began to walk at a lazy pace towards the fisherman carrying his catch, tail held high. He twitched his ears, listening for the sounds of horse hooves and drumbeats. Moving slightly when air currents of approaching creatures tickled his whiskers, always the fisherman remained in sight. Nobody noticed him, nobody ever paid any mind to him. Not even the fisherman when he reached his vending booth and laid out his catch for display.

He mewed softly before sitting down out of sight of the fisherman and watched the man work. The fisherman slapped big fish down, some would still twitch feebly with what remained of their lives. The small fish having already died, stared lifelessly up at the sky, silvery scales glistening in the morning sunlight. He licked a paw to clean his face, taking his time since the fish weren't going anywhere. He must make sure to clean behind his ears, just like Mother had taught him. Clean for now, he crouched down and wrapped his tail around his paws, watching the fisherman, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

He saw a few minutes later when the fisherman walked some distance away from his stall. He struck, racing across the mud churned street and in a single bound leapt up onto the display of fish. The scent of fish dazzled his nose, which twitch as he looked around for a fish he could carry back that wasn't too small or too large.

"Hey! Get out o' there ya cat!" the fisherman shouted, rushing over to shoo him. The one he noticed inn that moment would have to do. He picked it up and leapt down, running in between the boxes. He caught his breath, willing his body to relax as the fisherman came close to his hiding spot. "Where did tha' bloody cat go?" the fisherman growled, the reek of his unwashed body and fish burning his nostrils and he crept further back between the crates, "Hell," the fisherman muttered, giving up and going back to his stall.

He waited, inching out towards the road, ears twitching for unfriendly sounds and nose seeking dangerous scents. He scanned the road, nothing too dangerous roamed now and he relaxed a bit further; now to find the scent from a few days ago, the hunter smell. The hunter smell had rescued him when an annoyingly playful dog chased him a tree. The words the hunter smell spoke were strange human sounds that he didn't recognize, different from the human sounds the people of the city spoke.

He wanted to repay the kindness the hunter smell showed him that day. He hoped the fish he was able to snatch would be enough. He began to march, tail held low, his nose twitching for traces of earth, sweat and salt, all mingling together with the undertone of blood. He picked it up as he exited the docks; though it was faint, he followed it, climbing up on barrels and crates, sniffing the air.

Deeper he went into the human city, sticking to the alleys since the horses and the strange wheel-houses didn't travel down the narrower roads. It also allowed him to stay away from the drumbeats. The humans with the drumbeats were mean men, he saw them kick a friend of his once, they laughed about it. The hunter smell never kicked his friends; in fact, many of his friends would brush up against the hunter smell, mewing happily. Even the idiot dogs seemed to be friendly with the hunter smell.

The hunter smell grew stronger as he reached the backside of a particular tavern. He rounded the corner and the hunter smell appeared out of a door that led into the ground. He wondered why the humans built doors that led into the ground. They weren't built for living in the ground, not like prey. He bolted forward, meowing as loudly as he could and held his tail high. The hunter smell paused and stared at him as he approached.

He always though the hunter smell looked strange. Humans were strange creatures wearing other animal skins since they didn't have any proper fur to keep them warm. The hunter smell was a particularly strange human since the hunter smell wore a covering over its head; he was often reminded of the not-prey birds that circled high overhead. He reached the hunter smell, set the fish before its feet and meowed loudly, looking up at the hunter smell earnestly. He meowed again and pawed at the fish, flexing his claws. Sometimes humans didn't understand and would walk off, he hoped the human smell was different.

The hunter smell was, for he crouched down to his level and noticed the fish in the grass. The hunter smell picked it up with his large human paw and looked at it. "Is this for me?" the hunter smell asked, in the familiar harsh sounds that the humans of the city used.

 _Yes_ , he mewed, purring and rubbing his head against the hunter smell's paw. _It is thank you for rescuing me._ He increased the volume of his purr, hoping this would appease the hunter smell. Humans seemed to respond better whenever he purred. He looked up at the hunter smell's face, and was pleased to see the hunter smell drawing his lips back. He knew humans did that when they were happy and he was glad he could make the hunter smell happy, since the hunter smell had such sad eyes.

"Thank you," the hunter smell said and reached for his head with his empty paw. He let the hunter smell stroke his coat, hoping the hunter smell didn't mind it being dirty. "I want you to have it though," the hunter smell said offering fish back to him. His whiskers drooped, disappointed that the hunter smell would do that.

 _Don't you like it? I got it for you!_ He mewed and pawed at the fish. Did he do something wrong? Humans gave each other gifts to show thanks right? He saw other humans do it, why was this human different?

"I have food to eat, you don't, I want you to take it and live," the hunter smell said. He frowned, the words meaningless to his ears, but the kindness in the tone was all he needed. The hunter smell was giving the fish back to him not because he didn't want it, but because the hunter smell knew how valuable it was to him. The hunter smell held the fish out in his open paw.

 _Thank you_ , he mewed softly before taking the fish from him.

Connor watched as the cat took the fish from his hand. "I'll tell the owners to leave something out for you," he told the cat as the animal backed away from him. "Come back tomorrow and there should be food."

The cat stared at him, blinking it's green eyes slowly before scampered off into the alley. Connor sighed, making a mental note to inform the owners of this tavern to leave food out for a stray cat. He ran towards the building and jumped, fingers finding purchase in the wood. He began to climb towards the roof, he had a Templar to find.

* * *

 **I saw this image of a cat carrying a fish as it walked along the docks on Tumblr yesterday. I wanted to write a story about the cat, why it had the fish and where was it going. I mentioned this idea to my friend, and she suggested the cat was bringing Connor a fish. So, here it is.**

 **I don't know where Connor is and I don't know which Templar he's hunting. He's just in a city, hunting a Templar. Deal with it.**

 **Charles Lee kills kittens every time you don't review. Think of the kittens.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**


	11. Pastry

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Dedication: MohawkWoman**

* * *

The brown pastries didn't look like cute little hearts. No, instead they looked like deformed globs of… Shay didn't really want to think about what they looked like exactly. He poked one, afraid to try it. "Maybe you should ask Hickey to sample this, sir," he told Haytham. "You know he's willing to put anything in his mouth if it looks like food."

Haytham gave an exasperated sigh. "If Hickey likes them he'll eat them all." Haytham picked up one of his concoctions. "Just eat one."

"Why don't you just buy a box of confections for your… erm… native woman," Charles offered, he too also a taste-tester for Haytham. Neither man could believe that the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite spent all of yesterday and most of today in the kitchen with the plump Mrs. Hefferton from next door, baking.

"She is not aware of our traditions," Haytham stressed, "therefore I feel it's best if I made them by hand." _Then if she rejects it, I won't be out a few pounds._ He didn't say that though, but assumed that the pensive expression on his face portrayed his thought. He picked up two pastries. "Now, I order you to try them." Haytham presented Shay and Charles with the sugary treats.

Shay glanced at Charles, shrugged before taking the pastry. Charles did as well. "Cheers, mate!" Shay said, tapping his pastry against Charles, who scowled in annoyance. Shay shoved the pastry in his mouth. He bit down and instead of a soft fluffy treat, he felt like he was eating his mother's scones, which were hard as rocks. He forced a smile onto his face. "V-Very good, sir," he said around a full mouth. He swallowed. "A little dense, but nothing a cup of tea can't fixed."

"Charles?" Haytham asked, an imploring look at his second-in-command. Charles sighed, not wanting to sample Haytham's baking after what Shay had to endure.

"You know this is just going to end badly." He clarified, "your romance with the native woman."

"Eat. It. Charles." Haytham said tightly, through clenched teeth. He did not want to discuss his bumbling attempts at wooing Ziio with Charles. Charles sighed, before eating it. He spat it out and gave it to his dog.

"Horrid, sir," Charles said, "absolutely horrid."

Haytham sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Hickey!" he shouted. "Hickey, come in here! I have need of you!" Their expert in loosening tongues didn't appear. "Shay," Haytham sighed.

"Oi! Hickey! Get yer ass in here!" Shay bellowed. The door creaked opened, to reveal Thomas Hickey, who was drunk.

"What's all th' fuss 'bout?" he asked, his speech slurred. Haytham held out a pastry.

"Eat it," he ordered. Hickey walked up to his leader, a slight sway to his step. Squinting at the pastry then at Haytham, Hickey burped and took it from Haytham.

"What is it?" he asked, sniffing the treat.

"Put it in your mouth and eat it, idiot," Charles growled. Hickey shrugged and shoved it into his mouth.

"No' bad," he said, "didn't knew yous baked, Hay'am."

"I say they are edible enough," Haytham said, and began to pack the pastries in a tin. "I just hope she accepts them."

"You means they aren't for us?" Hickey asked, moonstruck by the news.

"No, who did you think they were for you, lobcock?" Charles snapped.

"Well… all o' us," Hickey replied. "Who's they for Haytham?"

"Nobody that concerns you, Thomas," Haytham replied curtly as he finished packing up the pastries. "Gentlemen, I'll be off now. Charles, you maintain order. Shay, don't antagonize Charles. I should be back by tomorrow night," Haytham said and left kitchen. Shay, Charles and Hickey watched him leave.

"I thought he'd made them for you, Shay," Hickey said. Shay punched Hickey in the jaw.

* * *

Cold, knee-deep in snow, and terribly lost Haytham began to wonder if this was a terribly bad idea. "Ziio! Ziio!" he shouted, trudging through the snow. "Ziio! Good God, woman! Where the hell are you?" he asked, craning his neck to stare at the branches of the tree. He looked down at the tin of pastries he held. His hands were starting to get cold carrying it. "Ziio!" he shouted again.

"What do you want?" Ziio asked, from behind him, having dropped down soundlessly. "I told you that I would come when we are ready to stri—"

"Here!" Haytham said, turning around and presenting the tin to her. "Happy Valentine's Day."

Ziio arched her brow and stared at the tin suspiciously, but didn't make any move to take it. "What is Valentine's Day?" she asked.

"It's an English holiday," Haytham said, "when lovers give each other gifts of either flowers, confectionary or greeting cards. Since there are no flowers and I doubt a greeting card would mean much, I made some pastries."

"And what are pastries?" she asked, confused. She thought it sounded like a silly holiday; then again, she was sure Haytham would probably think the same thing of the holidays of her people. "And why are you doing this? We are not lovers." At that, Haytham flushed and began to stammer, lowering the offered to and staring at his feet oppose to her.

"N-Never mind, I just thought…" he swallowed and was about to leave when she reached out, her hands covering his. "Ziio," he began.

"You are… pig-headed, Haytham Kenway," she said, an enigmatic smile on her face and an equally unreadable twinkle in her amber eyes.

"I prefer the word tenacious," Haytham grumbled, handing off the tin to her. She chuckled. "I hope you enjoy them," he said.

"I enjoy that you…" she frowned, "you considered me." She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his cheek. "Thank you," she said and began to walk away.

"Ziio," Haytham called and took a step towards her. She stopped, turning around to stare at him. The wind picked up, blowing her braids about along with flakes of snow. He swallowed, thinking she was stunningly beautiful. "When can I see you again?" he asked, in a soft voice that was nearly lost to the wind's howl. Ziio smiled cryptically.

"I will come to you," she said before vanishing into the woods.

* * *

 **In which I ignore the timelines for ACIII, Forsaken, and Rogue! :3**

 **The origin of our modern Valentine's Day tradition of giving gifts to others first appeared in 18** **th** **Century England, since that's the 1700s I figured the tradition crossed the Pond. Thus, this! This is also due to the fact that everyone seems gloomy today and it's effecting me, so I thought I cheer people up with pointless fluff. :3**

 **Haytham can't bake to save his life.**

 **I have a Naruto/MadaHashi one and an ATLA/Zutara to do, plus I'm listening to** **É** **lan by Nightwish on loop. I love that song. :3**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**


	12. Color

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"Dada." Tiny figures prod his side. "Dada." The fingers are more urgent in their prodding. "Dada." Again the tiny fingers poke him, insisting that he give their own his undivided attention. "Dada!" Poke. Poke. Poke. Go the fingers into his side, demanding with all the importance of a two-year-old child. He tells himself that he mustn't snap at the boy. That if he does his wife will scold him and make him sleep on the couch for the night. Yet, he finds it difficult to concentrate on his work, when tiny little fingers are jabbing him constantly in the side. "Dada!" The fingers poke him again.

"Not now, son," Haytham grumbles, and pushes the little hand away from his side. There is a brief moment of silence and he wonders if the fingers will resume their poking. Thankfully they don't, instead the bothersome child squirms his way beneath the desk and then attempts to wriggle his way into Haytham's lap.

"Ow," the boy grumbles, hitting his head on the underside of the desk. Haytham peers down at his lap, his son attempting to climb up his legs. "Dada," the boy says, a wide grin on his face.

"Connor, what in heaven's good name are you doing?" Haytham asks, baffled by his son's insistence on getting his attention. Haytham pushes himself away from the desk just enough that Connor can worm his way into his lap. "Now you be good and—"

Connor slaps down his coloring book and crayons over Haytham's, gives Haytham his most winning smile before he begins to color a giraffe and sing a song he made up, the lyrics a convoluted mix of Mohawk and English. "Connor, I can't work with you doing this," Haytham says as he picks up his son and goes to set him down. Connor gets fussy, kicking his legs and babbling in a mix of Mohawk and English.

Haytham sighs, returns Connor to his lap and hands the boy his coloring book, propping it up against the desk. "Now, let me work," Haytham says, his tone stern as he goes back to meddling through countless legal documents. Connor is pacified for the moment, but soon his coloring book appears back up on the desk, the nonsense song resumes and interrupts Haytham's work once more. "Connor Kenway, I am trying to get work done!" Haytham growls, and lifts his son up off his lap.

Connor pouts, looking between his coloring book, father and the floor. He holds out a crayon to Haytham. "Color?" he asks, a puppy-look on his face. Haytham sighs, realizing that if he were to get work done it'll be during Connor's nap time. He glanced at the clock, his wife normally puts their son down for a nap around three, the clock read one o'clock.

"Alright," Haytham says, setting Connor down on his lap again. He takes another crayon and begins to color the tree the giraffe is eating. He starts humming along to Connor's nonsense song; soon he's singing it, stumbling over the Mohawk bits with all the grace of an elephant performing ballet. That's how Ziio finds them upon her return, grocery bags in hand.

"Having fun, I see," she chimes, a brilliant smile on her face.

"Ista!" Connor is the first to notice her, jumping off Haytham's lap (after he rams his knee into Haytham's groin in the attempt). He begins to babble at her in rapid streams of the convoluted mix of Mohawk and English, and Haytham realizes that the boy would never pick up any decent amount of English if he's always at the office. Not that Connor couldn't speak English. Haytham makes a mental note to spend more time at home, if only to expose Connor to English more. The boy is only two. Haytham gets up and helps Ziio unload the rest of the groceries, Connor being underfoot while they do so, relaying the day to his mother in his innocent toddler babble.

* * *

 _Fifteen years later_

Haytham jumps, startled and looks up to see his towering teenage son, just a bit shy of six feet. The doctor assures them that Connor will have another growth spurt soon. He plays football on the high school team, tackling people. Haytham doesn't pay attention the rules, but shows up to the games and cheers on his son. He doesn't really approve of his son hanging out with Ezio or Altaïr, but he knows both Giovanni and Umar, so he allows it. He also doesn't approve of Connor dating Aveline de Grandpré, who's twenty-one and in college and a terrible influence on his impressionable son, but he works with Aveline's step-mother and she's a decent woman, so he allows it. "What?" Haytham asks his son.

"You're working too hard old man," Connor sits down opposite Haytham and flips open the coloring book he bought at the bookstore. It was one of those fancy coloring books aimed at adults to help reduce stress. "Color?" Connor offers Haytham a colored pencil and Haytham can't help but remember all those years ago when his son was small and completely innocent of the cruelties of the world outside their home. When Ziio still made dinner and summer vacation was a month long family camping trip at the Mohawk Reservation and involved eating various bugs and campfire stories while watching meteorite showers, licking chocolatey goo off their fingers from s'mores. Before Ziio died in a freak car crash one rainy day in June and Haytham spirited himself and son away to England for the entire summer, since everything in their Boston home reminded him of Ziio.

"Connor, I'm working," Haytham protests, gesturing to the paperwork littered across the desk.

"Right," Connor looks away, and Haytham wonders if Connor blames him for making Ziio drive that day to pick him up from Altaïr's. "You're always working." Connor mumbles, and Haytham realizes with sickening clarity that on some level Connor does blame him and Haytham wonders if Ziio would still be alive if he had only gone to pick up their son that day instead of her.

"I can leave it for a few hours," Haytham says reluctantly, setting down his pen and scooting over to his son. _Life is precious,_ his father once told him, _you need to stop and smell the roses once in a while,_ Haytham. He picks up a green pencil and begins to color in the seaweed of tangled in the mermaid's hair. "You and Aveline haven't done… anything I should be concerned about? I'm not going to be a grandfather any time soon?" Haytham asks, unsure how to talk with his son.

Connor flushes and looks away. "She _is not_ my girlfriend, Dad!"

* * *

 **And yeah…**

 **No Sexual Sunday today. I don't feel up to it. Have no plan, so I wrote this. Plus, I'm bummed because I wanted to write this really cool fantasy short story for English, but I told my mom the basic plot of it was a retrieval quest (for those who play fantasy RPGs you know the time, go into a cave, defeat the boss monster at the end, get the magic item, head back to town) and she said that didn't sound like a very exciting story idea, so all my motivation to write it died. So, I rehashed a story from last quarter. I actually want to submit this story, so it'll be good to get new eyes on it.**

 **And I write this story in present tense, which I normally don't do, but it turned out pretty good. Which reminds me of my SasuSaku vampire AU a long time ago… I liked Sakura in that one.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **If you don't, Charles Lee will get away!**

 **-Nemo**


	13. Eyes of the Wolf

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _You told I had the eyes of a wolf. Search them and find the beauty of the beast!_ _—_ _Nightwish_

* * *

Aveline stared at the little nine-year-old boy dressed in beaded deer skin, standing before her. "His name is Connor Kenway," Madaeleine told her, as she knelt down to eye level of the child. "My associate in the north spirited him here, fearing for the child's safety. He'll be living with us from now on."

"Hello," Aveline said, holding out her hand. The child stared at it, suspicious of such overtures of friendship. She could relate to that, she too, had trouble trusting people ever since her mother disappeared. "I'm Aveline," she said. "What's your name?"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," the boy said, meeting her gaze for the first time.

"Ra-doon-hay-gay-ton?" she tried to say, stumbling and butchering his name horribly. She gave the child a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Can you say it slower? I'm not too good with English."

The boy gave her a brief smile. "Ra-doon-ha-ge-doon," he said slower. "Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"Ra-doon-ha-ge-doon?" she repeated. He nodded. "Would it be alright if I just called you Connor?"

"Fine, most people do," he said, his English slow and deliberate like hers. She studied him; he had eagle feathers in his unkempt black hair, a braid to one side with a red and green bead. His skin was a caramel color; though not as dark as hers, almost light olive in tone. His most stunning feature were his eyes, a brilliant amber the revealed an unbreakable defiant spirit. She rose to her feet, her skirts rustling as she straightened.

"Come Connor," she held out her hand, "I'll show you to your room."

Connor took Aveline's hand.

* * *

 **Flashfic I had in the shower.**

 **I bought Connor, Haytham and Aveline action figures so this it result of it, I guess. There may be more as I have this little idea that Connor was spirited down to New Orleans under Haytham's orders to protect him for some reason, though Connor isn't aware of it. He meets Aveline, and she eventually introduces him to Agat** **é** **, and Connor is trained as an assassin and eventually makes his way up north to help liberate the Colonies. :D**

 **My cat has a stomachache, he makes stinky poos in the litter box. Eeeeewwww….**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**


	14. Names

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **[I would say I own the action figures, but technically they are still under Ubisoft's licence]**

* * *

"Remind me again, why we are going down to New Orleans?" Connor asked, glancing over at Aveline. His wife leaned over the side of the ship, watching the dolphins leap in the wake.

"Jefferson bought Louisiana, it's a part of the United States now, I can transfer my father's business to your name," Aveline replied. She stood and walked over to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "It would provide us with an income."

"We have managed fine on the money Achilles left me," Connor pointed out. "As well as the money I and Edwin have made selling furs."

"Yes, but the funds Achilles left you have almost ran out, you and Edwin don't hunt enough to maintain everything needed to run our Brotherhood and the Homestead."

"And your father's business will provide that?" Connor arched a brow. He turned the helm slightly to the left, enjoying the feel of the worn wood beneath his palms.

"It will, now that Louisiana is a part of the United States," Aveline said. Connor grunted, turning his attention back to the sea. They would be docking at New Orleans tomorrow. "What's the matter? There is another reason that you are all frowns," Aveline asked. Connor's scowl deepened.

"I am worried."

"About what, _mon amour_? Gérald will help with the transfer; he has been managing my father's business for years."

"I am worried about our children," Connor looked at Aveline, "Especially Edwin."

"They are old enough to mind themselves, Connor, you worry about them too much," Aveline replied, a smirk on her lips. "In a way, Edwin is like you."

"Maybe…" Connor muttered. "I also worry that I may not be able to legally take possession of your father's business."

Aveline snorted. "I already have a way around that," Aveline said, smiling, "how do you like the name Loup?"

"Loup?"

" _Oui_ ," Aveline said. "It's French for wolf. It's similar to Connor."

"Why do I need a new name? Connor is fine."

"You are going to pass as French… or maybe Spanish. Yes, Spanish would be better with your olive complexion. What do you think of Sandalio?"

"What is wrong with Ratonhnhaké:ton, it is my actual name?"

"Nobody can say it," Aveline pointed out.

"Then what is wrong with Connor?"

"It's Irish, and no Irishman has skin dark as yours," Aveline said. "It's only for a little while, _mon amour_."

"Who am I supposed to be, in this little masquerade?"

"My husband, naturally, though my brother would be a better choice, but people knew my father and knew I was his only child." Aveline shrugged. "Your mother was Spanish and your father English."

"So, Sandalio Kenway," Connor replied.

" _Oui_."

Connor sighed heavily. "I suppose I have to wear my other coat then, the one without the beading on the arms."

"It would be best." Aveline frowned when he heaved a great sigh. "It's only for a few days, Connor. If people see the beadwork, they'll realize you are not Spanish."

"I like the beadwork," Connor grumbled, touching his forearm where the beadwork was located. He remembered sitting in front of the fire during the winter, sewing in the beads. He felt close to his mother when he did beadwork, for she taught him how to do it.

"I know," Aveline said, walking up to him. She traced the pattern, "but we can't do this transfer if people suspect you are not fully white."

"I understand. It is not fair, is it," he looked at Aveline, "for such a thing to be denied to us, because our skin is darker than others."

"No, it's not," Aveline agreed. "Do you think it would have been different… if the Templars won?"

 _The only difference, Connor_ _—_ _the only difference between me and those you aid_ _—_ _is that I do not feign affection!_

Connor stared at the ocean, his father's words echoing in his ears. He wondered if he could walk around Boston without nasty whispers and cruel stares being directed at him, if Aveline could freely go about without carrying papers that stated she was freeborn, if their children didn't have to worry about being accused of being runaway slaves; if the Templars had been triumphant. "My father told me once that the difference between him and the Americans is that he did not feign affection."

"But you said Charles Lee hated your people," Aveline pointed out.

"He did… I do not know Aveline. I try not to think about what things would have been like if I did not kill my father," Connor said. "Besides," he looked at her, "I have you."

She kissed him.

* * *

 **And I'm ending this because I just really wanted to write Connor complaining about having yet another new name to his growing lists of aliases. Poor boy.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**

 **PS: Hopefully I'll get around to writing cute Haytham/Ziio fluff with them as children today.**


	15. Yet I Remain

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _Wind in the wheat, kiss by a hearth, little hideaways for a lonely heart!_ _—_ _Nightwish_

* * *

 _Encounter_

She threw sticks and small rocks at him. This strange pretty Native girl in her buckskin clothes, feathers in her hair and a scowl upon her face. A stick finds its mark, hitting him in the head. "Ow." Haytham rubs his abused face. "That hurt."

She looks at him, throws a rock this time. He ducks and she smiles. "Not stupid," she says before vanishing into the forest.

"Wait, come back!" he gives chase, sprinting across the creek bed, and barreling head long into the underbrush. She is rabbit-quick, but he is fox-persistent and chases her up a tree. Her nimble fingers grab branches and she hauls herself out of his reach, a teasing grin on her face and mirth in her eyes. He cranes his neck to see her, hand against his brow to shield his eyes from the spring sunlight. "Come down!" he calls.

She giggles and disappears through the trees. He watches her go.

* * *

 _Friends_

"Kaneihtí:io," she says, looking at him. He's thirteen to her seven, and she squats on a large flat rock in a manner Haytham could never duplicate. She pops a blackberry into her mouth. Her hair is longer, she has less feathers in her hair, and now has bracelets craved from turtle shells on her wrists.

"Kana-gee-o?" Haytham says, frowning when it didn't come out like she said it. She smiles at his attempt regardless, giggling and offers him a blackberry. He accepts and pops the berry into his mouth. His eyes widen, as a sharp tartness hits his tongue. She giggles.

"Ziio," she says.

"Diio," he says instead. She smacks him in the head.

" _Z_ iio," she stresses. "You really are a noddyhead."

"Am not," Haytham growls in return. He stares at Ziio, wonders if sneaking out of the window was a smart idea, but he's thirteen and reckless and she's fascinating, her English rapidly improved each time he encounters her.

"Too stupid to live," she retorts.

"Am not!"

"You cannot even climb trees, let alone escape a bear," Ziio says, eating another berry, "Thus stupid."

"Well, I can say the same thing for you! You do not know how to figure sums or the history of our world or the classics like Plato," Haytham says. "We consider people who don't know such things _stupid_."

"Hmph." Ziio finishes the berries and wipes her hands clean. She stands up and stares at him. "I do not trust you," she suddenly declares. Haytham felt his cheeks color.

"I know," he says. It's obvious for he only ever meets her when she wants him to, and it took him a year to get her name. He smiles though, since he'll prove to her she can trust him… one day.

Ziio frowns at him, turns around with her braids whipping behind her. She runs off into the woods, glancing back briefly; Haytham smiles and waves goodbye.

* * *

 _Sweethearts_

He doesn't see her for many days, which melt into weeks, then into months and finally, six years have gone by. Haytham sleeps beneath a pine tree, his tricorner hat pulled over his eyes, a hand on his stomach and the other pillows his head. "Wake up," a voice says, familiar and long overdue. A kick in the shin jerks him into wakefulness and he pushes his hat up, grey eyes widening at the sight of her.

"Ziio!" he says, grins and sits up. She looks different, her hair is long, she wears more feathers and turtle shell jewelry. It takes her squatting down before him for him to realize what is different about her. She has curves, breasts, and looks more like a woman than the scrawny yet pretty Native girl he saw six years ago.

"You are still here," she states, a frown tugging at her lips. "Why?"

"To prove you wrong," he says, shifting to sit on his knees. His cheeks turn pink when he realizes how close he is to her. She smells like pine trees and wild flowers. She glares at him, with amber eyes he could get lost in. "Ziio, I—"

She shoves a plump blueberry into his mouth. "You must be touched in the head," she teases, "Sleeping beneath a tree like that. A puma could have come along and killed you. Then who would I share these blueberries with?"

He busies himself with chewing the berry, unsure how to answer her question. "I missed you," he blurts out once he swallows. A berry pauses at her lips, which Haytham suddenly realizes are perfect and kissable and he's senselessly jealous of the blueberry for being close to Ziio's lips.

She blushes and slips the berry between her perfect lips. He catches a glimpse of her tongue and his carnal side wants to grab her and kiss her until she's flushed and gasping, wanting more and more. He yanks out a tuff of grass instead. He shreds the grass between his hands.

"Come," Ziio says suddenly, slipping her slim hand into his as he shakes grass free from his fingers. She shoves the rest of the blueberries into his mouth. He takes the moment to lick her palm, smirking to himself as she shudders at the sensation. She leads him through the forest, to a cliff overlooking the land. A hawk screams somewhere in the horizon and Haytham marvels at the beauty stretched out before him. He tightens his grip on Ziio's hand.

* * *

 _Kiss_

"It will not happen," she declares, sixteen and a warrior among her people. He can sense it in her that she has killed and killed repeatedly. At twenty-two, he has too. He doesn't tell her though, which he supposes is best since they can forget about the blood on their hands for a moment, in these stolen hours together. The weight of the hidden blade on his wrist and the ring upon his left ring finger, suddenly unbearable; monster or man, he cannot decide but with Ziio… _for_ Ziio, he'll be a man.

"So you say," he tells her, wrist resting above her head, bark falling into her raven wing colored hair. How many times have they ended up like this, so close, an almost waiting to become reality.

She stares at him, defiance and desire storming together in her amber eyes. He licks his lips, wanting to break this glass wall between them and just-do-it-damn-it-kiss-her already! She moves first, she always moved first. She's impulsive like that, and he loves that about her, wait did he… _yes_ , he does. Haytham feels her hands on his neck and jaw, pulling him into the kiss, their _first_ kiss.

Is short and chaste, and passionate and sinful, and oh-god-oh-god he wants more and more, he can't breath and is drowning in the very air he breathes. They break apart and he rests his forehead against hers and just stares into her eyes. He feels her hips and wonders when did his hands get down there, then realizes he doesn't really care. He wants to kiss her again. "You kissed me!" he blurts out, and feels stupid for stating the obvious.

Ziio chuckles, and kisses him again briefly. "I did," she quips and kisses him a third time. This one is longer and sensual, and Haytham sighs when her tongue enters his mouth. For her he'll surrender his very being.

* * *

 _Touch_

He isn't a very good dancer, but he teaches her the waltz anyway. The birds and squirrels in the trees must think them stupid, dancing over dead pine needles. Ziio is laughing and smacks Haytham's chest whenever he steps on her toe and he mumbles _a thousand pardons,_ which makes her laugh harder and fall into him. He kisses her.

He is twenty-six and she is twenty, and they have stolen what seems like a lifetime together in the woods. He doesn't mind, he revels in these stolen moments with her, welcoming them from the cruelty of the world beyond their little sanctuary.

He finds himself on the floor of their sylvan sanctuary, her on top of him and he doesn't want to stop kissing her because-if-he-does-he'll-die so he just keeps kissing until their lungs demand oxygen. He figures out that if he just opens his mouth a bit wider and sucks in a quick breath, he doesn't have to pull away. Ziio realizes it too. Yet, they pull away since they can't kiss forever. "Haytham," Ziio whispers, the amber light of the fading sun brightening her eyes and he cups her face, stroking her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

"Kaneihtí:io," he murmurs. It took him fourteen years to get her name right, but he can say it now with ease, though she insists he calls her Ziio and he's all too happy to do so. She attempted to teach him Mohawk once, but he managed to master only a few phrases. The smile that spreads across her lips when he whispers her name makes his heart skip a beat and he's kissing her again, though this time his hands wander and tug at her buckskin clothes.

Her hands aren't shy either, and her insisting fingers tug at his belt buckle and soon pull it free and he sighs, pulling her close and kisses her neck. She sighs at the sensation his heated kisses leave, he marks her with little nips so all the world will know that she is his.

Ziio is happy to return the favor. Bit by bit, they undress each other. Kissing and nipping and sucking each bit of newly expose skinned; shivering with passion and the chill summer breeze that sighs through the trees to hide their own exhales of lust. They move in harmony, Haytham can feel her heartbeat against his palm as he cups an-oh-so-perfect breast in his hand: _Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub_.

Ziio can feel his heartbeat too, as she claws little red furrows into his bare chest, hissing and muttering incoherently in Mohawk. He murmurs sweet little words into her ear with each roll of his hips. Rapture is sweet and intoxicating and Haytham swears by all that is holy there is a heaven and it is the woman in his arms.

"I love you," he whispers into her ear breaking the stillness in the aftermath. He hears her chuckle.

"I know."

* * *

 _Heartbeat_

It is snowing outside, yet they are warm by the fire inside her longhouse. He snuck into her village often enough that the Clan Mother just told him to use the entrance from now. The threat to her people is dead and buried thanks to him and his associates. She is grateful and so are her people. She took him to a sacred place among her people, but that was last summer, when he was thirty and she not yet twenty-five.

Her belly has rounded since then, their child cocooned in safety and love within her body. Haytham rests his hands on top of hers, but Ziio moves them away and reverses their hands' positions. "The child is kicking," she whispers, resting her head against his chest. She likes listening to his heartbeat. A smile brightens her face when he takes a shocked breath upon feeling their child kick within her.

"Strong," Haytham mumbles, "like his mother. Do you have a name?"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio replies, "for a boy. I haven't thought of anything for a girl."

"If it's a girl, can we call her Tessa?" Haytham asks, and Ziio cranes her neck to look at him. His face is expressionless but she can tell by his eyes that he is sad. She understands the loss of a parent, having lost her father to the ever encroaching colonists, when she was a small girl. Ziio closes her eyes, sighing when Haytham's hands move along her belly, seeking out their child.

"Yes… but I will think of a name proper for my people as well," Ziio mutters. "Any thoughts if the child is a boy?"

"Connor," Haytham says, looking down at her. Their noses touched and she frowns at the name.

"Connor?" she repeats.

"Yes, Hickey suggested it. Means _wolf lover_ ," Haytham says. "It's Irish in origin."

"Why did he suggest such a harsh sounding name?" Ziio asks, shifting closer to Haytham.

"You have the eyes of a wolf," he whispers, pressing his cheek against hers and kissing her where neck and shoulder meet. Ziio squirms and sighs and guides Haytham's lips to hers.

* * *

 _Love_

"Raké:ni! Raké:ni! Raké:ni!" the boy shouts, running down the slope of the valley that boarders the village. A grin on his face, laughter in his amber eyes and he wears buckskins with feathers in his dark hair just like his mother does; a turtle shell bracelet on his wrist. He doesn't crash into his father.

Haytham catches the racing child under the arms, hoists him up high, and tosses him gently. The boy laughs as Haytham catches him. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," Haytham mutters as he pulls his son into a hug.

"I missed you Raké:ni," Connor mutters, as Haytham sets him down. "Can I see it? Can I see it?" Connor asks excitedly and starts tugging and prodding at Haytham's wrist, jumping back only when the hidden blade snicks out, gleaming dangerously in the autumn sunlight. "Whoa…" he exclaims, a grin on his face.

"Careful, son," Haytham chides and sheathes blade, "you could've lost an eye. Then what would your mother say, hmm?" Haytham ruffles his five-year-old's hair as Connor giggles. He allows Connor to lead him through the village to the long house, where Ziio waits for him, with her arms folded over her chest, an amused smirk on her lips. It hits Haytham, the realization that it has been twenty-three years since he first met Ziio in the woods.

His son lets go of his hand and runs to his mother, babbling at her in Mohawk so quickly that he can't follow. She agrees to whatever it is, and he slips inside to fetch it. Haytham chuckles and pulls her close, feeling content with her in his arms. "Bundle of energy," he says.

"You have no idea," she say and looks up at him. He chuckles and leans forward, kissing her.

He pulls away and whispers, "so you say," into her ear.

"So I know," she replies a coy smile on her lips.

"Yet, I remain," he breathes as he tightens his grip on her waist, "yet I remain."

* * *

 **Alright! I'm sure most of you are very confused or a puddle of mush because of all the fluff. Here's the dealy-deal! Edward services tragic attack, and moves to the Colonies with Jenny and Haytham. Haytham meets Ziio when he's 12 (and she's six. There's a six year age gap between them). Haytham grows up and becomes an assassin, yet since he's always around Ziio he eventually comes into contact with William Johnson and eventually becomes a Templar.**

 **Haytham sometimes takes Connor to Boston, but mostly Connor stays with Ziio in the village. Haytham also calls Connor by his Native or English name, though he tends to use Connor's Mohawk name when he's in the village and his English name in Boston. :) While Haytham isn't fluent in Mohawk, he knows enough that he can say Connor's Native name without horribly butchering it.**

 **Written to** _ **The Heart Asks for Pleasure First**_ **by Nightwish, please listen to the song while reading it. I hope you enjoy it!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**

 **PS: Also, I don't usually write in present tense and I was trying to work on rhythm (like in poetry) with this, so if you could tell me how well I did or did not do on that, would be great! Trying out an unfamiliar technique is… challenging but fun! ^^**


	16. The Letters of Haytham Kenway II

**Assassin's Creed (c)**

* * *

"Ista! Ista! Ista!" the little boy called, trudging through the snow. He hadn't seen his mother in over a month, she never came back from her trip into Boston. She left because of some mysterious letters. "Ista!" he called again, following the footprints. He knew he shouldn't be out this far in the forest, but he thought he saw his mother in the trees and he followed her. "Ista, where are you!" he shouted, looking around the forest. Night had set in, the forest dark and spooky with the wind howling about him and whipping up the snow creating a haze of pale grey. He pulled his bear pelt cloak around him tighter. "Ista!" he shouted again.

A growl rumbled somewhere, yellow eyes aglow in the darkness and the boy's breath caught in his throat as more glowing yellow eyes appeared followed by a mournful howl that echoed through the trees. Wolves. The boy turned, intent on going back, but the wind and snow had covered the tracks. Lost, the boy ran forward, hoping he could find a low branch to climb and seek succor in the trees. His tears froze onto his cheeks, he just wanted his mother.

He charged through the forest, trying to outpace the wolves, but the beasts where herding him towards a prime location for striking. The deep snow hid rocks and roots, pitfalls that he would normally avoid; a root caught his foot and he went tumbling into the snow. A jagged rock cut him along his cheek, leaving a bloody gash. The pristine snow suddenly fouled with drops of scarlet. The boy rolled onto his back as he heard the lead wolf snarled; materializing out of the darkness with a pounce, salvia dripping from yellow fangs aimed for his throat. The boy gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, a final desperate call to his mother tumbling from his lips.

* * *

 _One month earlier_

Ziio gasped, her eyes widening at the sight of the leader. She'd recognized Haytham Kenway anywhere. Outwardly calm, Ziio stood and walked out of the tavern. She would need to send a bird to the Homestead and inform Achilles that she would not be returning any time soon, having to take care of unfinished business. She flicked her wrists, finding comfort in the familiar snick of her hidden blades unsheathing. She stared at the gleaming steel of the blades, before she retracted them, and vanishing into the crowd. She had left a note on her table, she knew he'd find it and tonight, she'll confront him.

She waited in the same graveyard she met him last night, though she stalked him from the trees. "Ziio? Ziio, where are you?" he called, walking through the rows of headstones. "Ziio, this isn't funny!"

 _No, of course not. You were supposed to be dead you bastard!_ Ziio thought angrily, following him from her perch in the trees. She stopped, waiting, hands loosely holding the branch for support. He walked beneath her and she smirked before leaping down. She flicked her wrist, hidden blade snicking out as she fell. She grabbed his shoulder, but he had expected her attack, and spun around, meeting her hidden blade with his own. She snarled, lashing out with her other one, which he countered with his other hidden blade as well.

She disengaged him. She didn't want to kill him again just yet, first she wanted answers. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Is he my son?" the man asked. Ziio scowled, but knew he'd ask that question. It had been the message she used to lure him. "Ziio, tell me true, is he my son?"

Ziio stared at him; the desperate look on his face would have been heartbreaking if she hadn't steeled herself for this moment. They had been in love once, so maddenly deeply in love and they felt that their love could bridge the gap between Templar and Assassin, create a true peace and…

Shay Patrick Cormac had destroyed all those dreams, him and his blinding revenge against the Brotherhood and his near successful annihilation of the Colonial Brotherhood. Achilles had sent her to her tribe upon finding out she was pregnant, sparing her and Ratonhnhaké:ton's life. Sometimes she wished she had been there to stop the horror Shay had wrought and sometimes she wondered if Haytham was by Shay's side as he cut down those he once called his brothers and sisters. "Is Shay Patrick Cormac still alive?" Ziio asked.

The man blanched before letting out a sigh. "Ziio, I understand you—"

"No, you don't understand! You never have been betrayed by someone you thought was a friend so—"

"Don't you dare presume you know my past! What I have or have not lived through!" the man shouted. "I understand perfectly well what feelings you feel towards Shay. I know the pain all too well." He looked away. "It hits all too close to home."

The last part she barely heard and he refused to make eye contact. Ziio sighed through her nose, willing herself to calm down. "His name is Ratonhnhaké:ton," she finally said.

"Pardon?" the man looked at her, puzzlement in her grey eyes.

"Your son," she said, "his name is Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"Ra-doon-gay-doon?" the man stumbled over the name. Ziio chuckled, remembering the time they first met and his butchering of her own name. "I'm sorry, is there something easier to call him? A nickname?"

"Connor," Ziio said. "Now, are you really Haytham Kenway?"

"I am," he said with a twitch of his lips. "The first words you ever said to me were 'Are you touched in the head?'"

"I thought… I thought I killed you," Ziio said. Her hands started shaking as she reached for him. Why did she have to be weak in such a moment? Where was all the anger and hurt she felt moments ago? Gone. Simply gone. She was a naïve fool, blinded by love and when she touched Haytham's cheek, she didn't care. He was alive and real as ever and surely, the spirits could give her one moment of bliss, just a slice of happiness is all she asks for. "How… how did you survive?"

"Lee found a body double. He knew the assassins were after my neck," Haytham whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. Ziio chuckled and sobbed, the sound a strange mix of the two. "You killed a man whose name I don't even remember."

"Haytham…" she whispered.

"I'm sorry Ziio, I thought it best if you thought me dead. I couldn't risk the others finding out and coming after you. I got word that you were pregnant from one of Johnson's associates in your tribe and… I wanted to come see you," he whispered, cupping her cheek and smoothing away a tear. She leaned into his touch.

"No, it was best that you stayed away," Ziio whispered. She placed her hand on his chest, she could feel his heart beating beneath her fingertips and instantly knew that despite how much she wanted it, she would have to kill him. "I'm—" she never finished the thought. Blood bubbled forth from her mouth, as a blade slid into her back, through the lung and into her heart. She stared at Haytham with accusing eyes, the last imaged seared into her brain was his shocked blood splattered face. She jerked once as the blade was removed from her back. She fell into Haytham's arms.

Haytham caught her, horror-struck and confused. He looked up from Ziio's dying form to see her killer. "Shay," he whispered, surprised that one of his most loyal subordinates was here. Shay flicked his hidden blade, droplets of Ziio's blood black in the moonlight. He retracted it with a snick. "Why Shay?" Haytham asked.

"She was going to kill you sir," Shay stated. "As much as she loved you, she couldn't forget you were a Templar and her enemy."

* * *

 _Present_

Connor opened his eyes when he felt warm droplets upon his face. A man was standing before him, his forearm caught in the wolf's jaws and a circle of red at the animal's throat. He scuttled back until he hit a tree. His savoir shoved the dead wolf off, before turning to face him. "Wh-Who are you?" Connor asked, shaking as he sat in the cold snow. The man walked over, crouching before him.

"My name is Haytham Kenway," the man said, "And you are my son."

* * *

 **And… I guess there will be a part three or not. I mean poor Connor, getting attacked by wolves and having this strange man tell him he's his dad and his mother's missing. (Achilles you bastard tell the poor boy his mother is dead!)**

 **I fudged the timelines. I know I did. :3 But I don't care!**

 **Shay is Shay. Actually, this story is gonna spiral out of control. I already got an idea for Shay. The jerk. Okay, so here's how it goes with the Templars in my head.**

 **Haytham – Boss man**

 **Charles – assistant boss man**

 **Shay – Haytham's loyal bodyguard and enforcer and borderline valet.**

 **Hickey, Johnson, Church, Pitcairn – the minions.**

 **Charles Lee kills puppies every time you don't review!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**

 **PS: Connor is around eight.**


	17. Finding Hope

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Some random song buzzed on the radio, several car horns honked somewhere on the street, the sound drifting through the window; a siren whined, and a cat yowled in the ally. White nose, familiar, mind numbing… comforting. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, filling his lungs with noxious smoke, he held his breath for five seconds before exhaling a plume of foul smelling silver that billowed around his head.

He reached for the nightstand beside his bed, grabbing the brown glass bottle, liquid sloshing around. He brought it to his lips, sucking at the contents within; he had long stopped feeling the burn of the alcohol down his throat.

Hope kissed his throat as they lay in bed together. Shay chuckled sleepily, fingers playing with the wedding band on her slim finger. They were somewhere in the former Soviet Bloc nations, on some job for the US government, their target: a former KGB agent that was now a major player in a highly complex organized crime syndicate. Their target's job was managing the human trafficking ring that the syndicate ran. "I'm pregnant," Hope whispered, tracing the cross tattoo on his heart, "due in February."

"Really?" Shay asked, shifting on the crummy bed in the hotel room they were staying in. The walls had peeling white paint, cracks from water damage in the ceiling and the TV in the room dated back to the 50's and only picked up two channels, projecting them in black and white. Shay cupped Hope's face, tracing her cheekbone with his thumb. He felt a smile tug at his lips.

Hope nodded, before bursting into a grin, laughter bubbling from her throat. "I am!"

"This is… this is incredible!" Shay laughed, pulling her close and kissing her. "We better get a room ready once we get back to the States for the baby then."

"You need to finish your law degree," Hope reminded him with a tap on his nose. He playing tried to bite her fingertip. "I'll get some IT job once this is all over."

"Agreed," Shay murmured, running his fingers through her hair. He loved the strawberry scent of her shampoo. "Normal jobs and normal lives."

"I'll miss the pay though," Hope sighed, snuggling close to Shay and resting her head in the crook of his neck. "Pay's good."

"I could continue," Shay suggested with no real seriousness behind the statement. Hope arched a brow. He flashed a smile and kissed her forehead. "Just a suggestion." He didn't want to, he grew up in foster care after his parents died and he didn't want to thrust that life upon his child. Hope scowled at him and smacked his chest, his laughter bubbled up out of his throat.

Shay sighed, setting the bottle down before rubbing his throat. Someone was knocking on his door. He should get up and answer it, but he didn't want to. A dog barked in the ally. "Fuck off!" Shay shouted at the door, before grabbing the spare pillow and covering his face with it. The plain white walls of his apartment vanished from view. He wondered if he could hold the pillow in place long enough to suffocate himself. The knocker was persistent. "I said, fuck off, asshole!" Shay pulled the pillow off his face and stubbed out his cigarette.

The knocking didn't cease. Shay groaned as he hauled himself out of bed, and slipped into a pair of jeans with a hole in one knee. He shuffled his way through the old empty pizza boxes on the floor to the door. "Don't ya understand English?" Shay snapped at whomever was at the door as eh yanked it open. He was shocked to see Haytham Kenway there, dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, fist poised to knock again. Shay had only recently started working at Temple Law Firm. He wondered what Haytham was doing at his apartment, though a better question was how Haytham _found_ his apartment. "What do you want?"

Haytham scowled. "You weren't at the office," he stated, "why?"

Shay shrugged. "I don't have to answer to you," Shay growled and went to close the door, but Haytham shoved his foot into the space between door and frame.

"Shay, I'm your boss! I'm partner, course you have to answer to me!"

"Screw you," Shay growled, trying to close the door again. Why couldn't Haytham understand that when May rolls around he wanted to be left alone?

Haytham sighed trying o worm his way into his apartment. "Shay, if you'd just tell me what's going on, I could—"

"What? Help? Yeah, fuck you Haytham! Fuck you. You have no god damn idea about what I'm going through! You should've just given me the vacation time I asked for!" Shay yelled. "Don't go presuming you can help me!" Shay reached out and shoved Haytham way from his door. "Fuck off, Haytham!" Shay slammed the door. He ignored Haytham's shouts and knocks as he went to the radio, plugging in his iPod and turning it to Slayer, cranking the volume up. Let the neighbours file a noise complaint, he didn't care. He grabbed his knife, a large sleek thing, before sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.

The carpet smelled of stale smoke and sweat. He thumbed the blade, before pressing the tip into the pad of this thumb, watching blood well up.

Liam's blood covered his hands. The mission had gone terribly, horribly wrong. It was a set-up, a brilliantly executed gambit that had cost Monro and Gist their lives. Now Liam was bleeding out as Shay tried to get him to safety. "Leave me," Liam forced out, bloody spit oozing out of his mouth. "I'm not gonna make it."

"Stop talking, Liam," Shay growled, blinking blood out of his right eye, where he sported a nasty cut. He hoped Hope was okay, she should be, being their eyes and ears, tucked away in the hotel room with all her computers and tech gear. Their enemies shouldn't be able to back-trace the signal to her location She should be safe… no, she _is_ safe. "Hope's pregnant," Shay whispered, dragging Liam along. "I'm gonna be a dad. Naming you godfather, Liam, you better survive bastard."

"Shay," Liam breathed. Shay ducked behind a dumpster. He glanced at the wound in Liam's side and noted the unearthly paleness of Liam's face. "I'm cold," Liam sighed.

"Stay with me Liam!" Shay hissed, patting Liam's cheek "Don't you want to see your godchild? _Live damn you!_ "

"Shay…" Liam sighed, "go… go to Hope…"

"I'm not leaving you!" Shay shouted, he felt tears well up in his eyes. He heard rough Slavic sounding words somewhere in the distance. "I'm not…"

"Shay… your wife…" Liam began, but breathed his last. Shay bit his trembling lip, before closing Liam's eyes. His friend… his brother… was dead. There was still a chance Hope was safe, he could still come out this with one person he cared about still breathing; the weight of his gun in his hand familiar and coldly comforting as he stood, running towards the hotel.

It wasn't a good sign when he saw the door to his hotel room ajar, nor when he heard Hope's high pitched scream followed by a sob. He cocked his pistol, before kicking the door open. "Mr. Cormac, pleasure you could join us," a bald man said, his words coated with a heavy Russian accent. Shay scowled, pointing his gun at the bald man's chest.

"Let her go!" Shay shouted, only to feel his blood run cold at the feeling of a muzzle pressed against his skull.

"I'd drop the gun and get on your knees, if I were you," the bald man said, pulling out his own gun and gesturing to the floor. Shay dropped his weapon, kicking it away and went to his knees, hands held up. That's when he noticed Hope, suspended from the ceiling by her wrists, the front of her shirt covered in blood

Shay stared at his blood, Slayer screaming at the edges of his consciousness. He glanced at his wrists, remembering some gloomy kid at the foster home telling him you cut horizontally for attention, vertically for suicide. Shay ground his teeth together, suicide was an unholy sin, his soul would never know the joys of Heaven, only the agony of Hell. "I'm already going to Hell," Shay muttered, pressing the knife to his wrist.

He'd be with Hope and Liam, everyone he had ever lost. How many years had it been since Hope's death? He lost count, since most of the time he could hold it together, pretend to be normal, that he'd moved on from his losses. They didn't know about the nightmares, how he had to have the TV, radio and window open to drown out the demons in his head, especially during May. Even if they did know, nobody could help. The pills stopped working long ago as did the booze. He knew a drug dealer, maybe he should talk to him. No, sooner or later, those drugs won't keep the monsters in his head silent. Better just to end it all. Shay slowly pressed the knife into his wrists. A bang sounded.

 _Bang!_ The bald Russian fired his gun into the ceiling to silence Hope's whimpers. Another thug entered the room and said something in Russian to the bald man, who gave a curt nod. "I ask you questions. You answer questions truthfully, pretty lady doesn't get hurt. You answer questions with lies, pretty gets hurt _ponimayu_?"

"Don't tell him anything Shay!" Hope shouted, only to whimper when another thug hit her.

"Let her go!" Shay shouted, a thug yanked him back to his knees when he tried to get up. The Russian frowned.

"Who is she to you? Hooker?"

"My wife," Shay snapped, rigid with fear, the muzzle hadn't left his temple. "Let her go."

"It is interesting you bring wife. Most men leave wife at home. Why bring wife?"

"Fuck you!" Shay spat. The Russian nodded, and one of his thugs cut Hope along her collarbone. Shay had to give Hope credit for not crying out.

"Who are you working for?" the bald man asked.

"Your mother," Shay said. The bald man slapped him across the face and Hope got another cut.

"I ask again, who are you working for?"

"Your sister had a lovely ass," Shay forced out, glowering at the man. The Russian hit him again, yelling at him in Russian, and with each blow Shay received a minion cut Hope.

"Shay," Hope whispered. Shay looked up to see his wife, bleeding from countless cuts. "I love you."

"Hope," Shay breathed, flinching when the thug took the gun from his temple. The bald Russian pressed his gun into Shay's hand, his larger one covering Shay's.

"Who are you working for!" he shouted into Shay's ear. Shay flinched, trying to get away from him, but unable to. Shay looked at Hope. She gave him a weak smile.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. The Russian snarled, and forced Shay to pull the trigger. The gun went off with a bang.

Shay turned his attention to the source of the bang, noticing that Haytham had busted his door down and looking disheveled. Haytham rushed over and yanked the knife out fo Shay's hand. "What the bloody hell, Shay?" Haytham asked. Shay stared into Haytham's grey eyes, not really seeing the man in front of him.

"Let me die, Haytham… please," Shay whispered. Haytham knelt down, grabbed Shay's head and pressed their foreheads together.

"No Shay no. I'm not giving up on you, never ever. You may be a disrespectful shit, but you're my disrespectful shit, you understand me? Don't kill yourself!" Haytham hissed, squeezing Shay's face.

Shay felt the tears on his cheeks and then he was sobbing, great heaving sobs. "Haytham… I killed her… I killed her! We were going to have a baby, a normal life… but I killed her!" Shay sobbed. "I killed my wife. _I killed Hope!_ " Shay leaned forward, until head rested on Haytham's shoulder. He howled, tears cascading down his cheeks, muttering over and over again: _I killed her, I killed her!_

Haytham didn't say anything, simply wrapped his arms around Shay and rocked back and forth making shushing sounds. "I know a really good PTSD councilor, set you up with an appointment… get your life back in order. You can heal from this Shay," Haytham whispered, and pressed his cheek against Shay's head. "You can heal."

Shay looked up at Haytham, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

"How?" he asked, voice soft and broken.

"By letting others help you," Haytham whispered. "I'm here for you, Shay. You can always talk to me."

"Thank you, Haytham," Shay breathed. "Thank you."

* * *

 **Trying out writing flashbacks, hoped it worked.**

 **There go the lame "Hope" puns, hahaha. The Bromance is strong between Shay and Haytham. Real strong. I like Hope and Shay together, I think they make a cute couple. I did write a bit where Haytham goes home and class Ziio, but Connor answers the phone instead. I may add it when I edit this after I get back from the movies. My brother and I are going to see Deadpool.**

 **Anyway, this is set in Hell and High Water Universe. This expands Shay's background a bit.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**


	18. Eeeew! Mushy Stuff!

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _Yank, yank, yank!_ Haytham pulled at the tie he wore, grumbling about another brilliant day the office. Everything seemed to _not_ go properly. His client was clearly guilty as sin, but he had to convince a jury the jerk-face wasn't, even though it was a slam dunk case for the DA. He told Charles he didn't want a party celebrating his seventh year as partner to the firm, but Charles threw him a bloody party anyway. Shay and Hickey got into a fight. He got stuck in traffic and forgot to pick up his son from soccer practice, his wife yelled at him over the phone for forgetting to pick up his son from soccer practice. His father called and talked to him for twenty minutes about… Haytham couldn't remember what about. He didn't eat dinner with the family because of work, which his wife yelled at him for. Shay called because he got into an accident and wouldn't be at work tomorrow. The list just got longer and longer.

"I need a vacation," Haytham growled as he undid the buttons of his shirt and tossed the garment into the hamper. He stared at himself in the mirror, half-naked, the band of his underpants slightly peeking out from his slacks. He took his watch off his wrist. He looked old. He use to jog in the mornings every day and did some weight training afterwards. His dumbbells were all packed away in the closet under the stairs. He couldn't remember the last time he went for a morning jog, before his son was born probably. He was forty-seven. He started to pose in the mirror, making weird faces as he did so. He didn't hear the shower turn off, so focus on flexing.

A soft giggle alerted him that he wasn't alone in his bedroom anymore. He hoped it wasn't his wife. He could deal with his son catching him being silly, but not his wife. He had _appearances_ to keep. Haytham stopped what he was doing and turned, spying his wife behind him. "Well, this is rather embarrassing," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. Ziio stood before him in nothing but a bath towel.

It took a moment for him to process the fact that for all intent and purposes his wife was naked. The only thing covering her, a big cream colored fluffy bath towel. He tried not to stare at her, with her black hair dripping, that girlishly coy smile on her lips, the ears of that wolf tattoo on her left breast peeking out from beneath the towel. How one foot scratched the calf of her opposite leg. The water droplets, like clear jewels on her tea colored skin. Dear god he was getting hard just staring at her. Haytham wondered when was the last time they had sex and found out he couldn't remember, before their son was born, most likely.

"What were you doing?" Ziio asked.

"Nothing," Haytham looked away, wondering if he could somehow talk Ziio into taking a shower with him. He'll say he needs her help in washing his back. _Brilliant, Haytham, brilliant._ "You didn't… see…"

"What? you making faces while you flexed in the mirror?" Ziio arched her brow.

"Damn." He rubbed his face and closed the gap between them. "When did you get so good on sneaking up on me?"

Ziio smirked. "I've always been good."

Haytham chuckled, staring into Ziio's eyes. Two beautiful pools of amber. He could get lost in her eyes. He went on a trial ride with her once, and got caught up staring into her eyes and nearly rode his horse off a cliff. She had laughed at him. "I… I need help washing my back," he said, though it sounded lame.

"Oh?" Ziio smiled that impish smile of hers. She placed one index finger on his left pec and traced it down to his navel. He felt goosebumps prickle on his arm. He grabbed her by her biceps and stared at her.

"Don't toy with me Ziio," he growled. She chuckled.

"What are you going to do about it?" she asked.

He smirked. "I can think of several things," he breathed. "Like this one." He pressed his lips to hers.

And that was as far as he was able to get it, for there was a loud cry of "Eeeeeew! Mushy stuff!" that sent Haytham and Ziio flying apart, like two oppositely charged magnets. Haytham turned to see his son, standing in the doorway, ready for bed holding a stuff wolf by its tail.

"C-Connor!" Haytham forced out. The boy gave him a wicked smirk before looking at his mother.

"Come kiss me good night, Ista," Connor said.

"I will in a moment, go get into bed so I can tuck you in," Ziio said as she slipped into the bathroom with her pajamas. Haytham sighed and walked up to his son. The boy stared back at him innocently.

Haytham knelt down to look at his son. "Good night Connor," he said and kissed the boy's forehead. Connor smiled cutely.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, I said get to bed or no good night kiss," Ziio seethed upon exiting the bathroom and seeing her son still in the door way.

"I was saying good night to Raké:ni," Connor replied, innocence coating each word as he lead the way to his room and fell into a conversation in Mohawk with his mother. Haytham sighed, closing the door.

"I need a vacation," he grumbled. A long one with Ziio, preferably to the Caribbean. He'll call his father and see if he can't watch Connor for a week or a month. Haytham paused, remembering that his father was a bad influence on the highly impressionable seven-year-old. No, he'll ask Shay. Shay had a wife and kids, and Shay owed him a favor. Yes. He'll do that.

Tomorrow.

* * *

 **I have no excuses.**

 **My brain told me to write sappy HayZiio. This is what I came up with. They shouldn't've left the door open. Then Connor wouldn't have ruined their moment. My cat's snoring, aww, cute.**

 **I'm off to kill some guy that wants to take over Nassau.**

 **Save an author; leave an** _ **honest**_ **review.**

 **-Nemo**


	19. Too Sexy for Shirts

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Connor stared at the glossy picture. He didn't really know what to make of it or why he was so transfixed. He glanced around the room, hoping nobody was looking before holding the photo up to the light. Yup. It was legit. He flipped it over and saw date on the back, which was nineteen years ago, when his parents were dating. He flipped the photo back to the image.

It was his father, in his twenties, without his shirt. He wore only a pair of jeans and underwear. The jeans hung on just below his hips with the button undone and the fly zipped halfway down, the white band of his underpants eye catching against his father's skin. He didn't know how is father got that sun-kiss tan look, must be a spray on. The Haytham Kenway in the photo had posed with his side facing the camera, and one hand running through his dark untied hair, a come-hither look on his face. There were shiny patches on his father's body, that Connor assumed were supposed to represent glistening sweat or water. The Templar cross was tattooed in his father's shoulder.

His father had a tattoo. Though Connor was unsure which was more shocking, the fact his father had a tattoo or that his father actually posed like this. "Dad!" Connor shouted. "Dad come here!"

"Connor, what is it?" Haytham asked, entering the room. Connor gave Haytham an imploring look before showing him the photo.

"What is this? Is this you? Why did you do this? Since when did you have a tattoo?" Connor asked.

"Good heavens, where did you find this?" Haytham asked, snatching the photo from Connor and immediately stuck it into his back pocket.

"On the floor, Ista wanted me to vacuum the room, so I was picking things up before I started and I found this," Connor said.

"Ahem… well, good boy. It's not me, I assure you."

"Why is your name on the back of the photo then?" Connor asked.

"Typo," Haytham said, his face rigidly neutral. "Make sure you get that vacuuming done before your mother gets home." Haytham left the room.

That evening Haytham confronted his wife with the damning photo. "I thought you said you destroyed that photo spread!" Haytham hissed, shaking the photo in front of Ziio's face.

"Oh, you found it!" Ziio squealed, plucking the photo from Haytham's hand before kissing his cheek and tucking it beneath her pillow. "I was afraid Ratonhnhaké:ton found it when I noticed it was missing."

"Get rid of it!" Haytham seethed.

"And miss using this as blackmail against you? _Never!_ "

* * *

 **I want someone to draw sexy pirate!Haytham with pirate tats.**

 **Since I can't have that, you get sexy Haytham modeling for Ziio, who's a photographer.**

 **Poor Connor.**

 **Note: This is modern day, the cross the historical Templars used is the only Haytham got tattooed (which ironically is the same symbol the fictional Templars use. :P)**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**


	20. Seashells and Mermaids

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Her dark hair catches the wind, the breeze smelling of salt and tropical fruit. Edward can't help but smile as Tessa laughs, rich and throaty, his grip on her fingers tight as they walk along the white sandy beach. He never thought he'd find someone again, not after Caroline, not after everything during those four years in the Navy.

Tessa proves all of those assumptions wrong. Tessa is the lighthouse guiding him back to a safe harbor. Tessa worms her fingers around, until their hands are laced together. They talk and laugh, kicking up sand and staring at the sun as it treks towards the endless horizon. "So tell me Edward," Tessa says, looking at him. He gets lost in her grey eyes, the color of spring rain clouds and bursting with mischief and life. "Why are we here?"

"Vacation," he replies, a mysterious twitch of his mouth, "why else? I wanted to take my girl to the Bahamas for her birthday."

"You're sweet," Tessa giggles, "roguishly sweet."

Edward tosses his head back with laughter and pulls her in close, kissing her neck. "I know my mother told me I have to eat dinner before dessert," Edward whispers into her dark hair, "but being with you makes me want to skip dinner all together."

"Edward!" Tessa squeaks, pushing against his chest, he lets her go, but maintains their connection by gripping her hand. He won't let her go, he'll never let her go. If he lost her, he'll wait for her until she returns, like an osprey waiting for its mate. Tessa smiles though, dimples appearing in her cheeks. "You said you had a surprise for me at dinner?"

It took effort not to touch the little velvet box in his pocket, Edward simply smiles and says, "I do." He pulls her close again, kissing her knuckles. He has to keep her distracted, so Thatch and Mary have to time to set up. He tugs her towards the surf, singing a song he heard in a strange mix of Spanish and English. She laughs, but soon they are dancing as the waves sigh around their ankles, the sun sinking further towards the horizon painting the world in a brilliant golden glow. Edward tangles his hands in her chocolate tresses. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, pressing his forehead against hers.

"You flatter me," Tessa says, though she smiles and blushes all the same. Edward can't help but smile at her reaction. He stoops quickly and by luck, scoops up an intact sea shell.

"A shell for the mermaid that stole my heart," he says, offering her the shell to her. Tessa's blush deepens, accepting the gift from him.

"It's beautiful," she breathes and holds it up to her, "I can hear the ocean." She throws her arms around his shoulders, nose to nose, both smiling like sweethearts. "You are plotting something Edward Kenway," she breathes, a strain of hair falling into her face, "what is it?"

Edward chuckles and steals a quick kiss. "What makes you think I'm hiding something, Tessa? You know all my secrets."

"Liar," Tessa accuses, tapping his nose, and he playfully attempts to bite her finger.

"Come," Edward says, as he glances at the sun, "let's go see if dinner is ready." He takes her hand, wandering towards the cluster of palm trees, their frons sighing in the sea breeze. Tessa clutches the seashell still, thumb caressing it with each step.

Edward is pleased when she gives a little gasp upon seeing the set up. Oil lamps dangle from the palms, lanterns placed along the base, fending off the gathering dark and casting the grove in a soothing golden glow. A table, set for two, sits in the center of a heart drawn in the sand. "Well," Edward places a hand on the small of her back, leading towards the table, "shall we eat?" he asks.

Tessa is speechless, baffled and overjoyed. "Did you do this?"

"How could I?" Edward says, leading her towards the table, "I've been with you this entire time."

"You have friends."

"They aren't here, it's just us, I've told you that," Edward says, pulling her chair out for her and holding her hand as she sits down. "I'm just charming."

"A charming pirate," Tessa teases, Edward laughs before striking a match and dropping it into the heart. Fire blooms to life in a roaring _whoosh,_ a red-orange glow illuminating them. It's warm in the center of the heart, yet the sea breeze is soothing with its cool caress.

"I won't say I'm a pirate," Edward replies, sitting down, "but I know how to romance a woman."

They eat in a mix of comfortable silence and chatter; the stars poke out in the sky as it darkens, the music the breeze and the sigh of the sea and Edward wishes this moment could last forever and that time can just go fuck itself. He stretches, snatching his prize from his pocket. The simple golden band feels warm against his palm, it came together in two halves of a seashell, tiny seed pearls nestled a small, yet brilliant diamond. Edward swallows, his hands clammy. "Tessa," he breathes, catching her attention.

"Hm?"

"There is something I must ask you," he holds her slender hand in both of his and slips the pretty little engagement ring onto her finger. "Marry me," he breathes, "stay with me forever. Let's chart a course to paradise together. I love you, more than anything. So… please, will you marry me?" he lets go of her hand, revealing the engagement ring on her finger.

Tessa gasps, heart thudding against her chest as she stares at the ring, fit for a mermaid princess. Tears glisten in Tessa's eyes and she looks at her boyfriend, no… her _fiancé_. "Yes, Edward, a thousand times yes."

* * *

 **So, I saw this beautiful sea-side picture on tumblr, of a flaming heart carved into the sand and a table set for two in the middle and I thought "that's how Edward proposed to Tessa" and what do you know I had to go and write it.**

 **It's first person, and I think it turned out… bad. It didn't flow right, maybe because the music wasn't right. Hmmm….. This does tie into** _ **Edward Kenway's Guide to Child Rearing**_ **and my first real Edward centric bit of fanfiction. Naturally, I butchered everyone. Hahaha.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **To everyone that doesn't review, my assumption that you** **hate** **this story is correct?**

 **-Nemo**


	21. Pets

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Haytham Kenway was a man that liked things neat, tidy, and orderly. He kept his house clean, his workspace tidy, his bed always made (he couldn't stand Ziio's constant rumbled blankets in the morning) and the kitchen neat.

He also wasn't too fond of pets, since he never had one growing up (small apartment with a stay-at-home mom and a father that worked two jobs, not the best place for a dog). Ziio didn't mind and then they had their son, Connor, which more than enough for Haytham to handle in terms of taking care of another living creature.

In an effort to teach the boy some responsibility when he was eight, they got him a black lab puppy, whom Connor named Aquila. Much to both of his parents surprise Connor took happily to taking care of the puppy, house training it, playing with it, feeding it, and everything spiraled from there. Soon, Haytham found himself at the pet shop, looking at kittens with Connor. A few months later, they were buying a rat and all the odds of ends needed for the animal, a parakeet followed the rat, and then a bunny.

Haytham felt this was getting out of hand when his son was nine. The boy was standing before him, his parakeet Benji on one shoulder, Mr. Nibbles the rat on the other, Jackdaw the cat and Aquila the dog at his feet. In his arms was his albino rabbit, Freckles. "I want a lizard, Daddy."

"Connor, don't you think you have too many pets?" Haytham asked, eyeing his son's pets. The smaller animals stayed in Connor's room, which was rather large, considering that they lived in a rather larger house in the country region outside of Boston.

"I take good care of all of them!" Connor protested. Haytham had to admit that his son did dedicate a considerable amount of time to each of his pets. He even drew up a schedule for tank and cage cleaning. Connor was even reluctant to go to sleep over parties in fear that his parents wouldn't take good care of his precious pets.

"I'm aware of that son, but… can you handle another one?" Haytham asked.

"Yes, I already know what lizard I want! I did all my research too!" Connor said.

"Oh? And what lizard do you want?" Haytham asked, hoping it was something easy to take care of and wouldn't get to be too big.

"A bearded dragon!" Connor replied, grinning. "Tank set up is really expensive but I'll open a lemonade stand in the summer and pay you and Ista back."

"That won't be necessary son," Haytham sighed. "Alright, bring me your research and I'll discuss it with your mother, if she thinks it's a good idea we'll go to the pet store and get you a lizard."

"I don't a baby," Connor said. "You get baby ones at the pet store. I want one that's a year old. They are easier to take care of because they eat more vegetables than bugs."

"Bugs?" Haytham asked.

"Yeah, you have to feed them bugs and veggies. It's more cost effective if you create your own Dubai cockroach colony," Connor explained.

"Cockroaches? No, Connor. I don't want cockroaches in my house, even if they are just to feed your pet lizard."

"Well, crickets are worse, they're smelly and hard to keep and noisy too," Connor explained, as he lead his father to his room, his cat and dog following him. "Plus, they'll be in my room and—"

"I don't care. No cockroaches!"

"Well, I guess I could use horn worms, but they have a high fat to meat ratio… mealworms aren't good. Phoenix worms, I can get those," Connor mumbled as he set his rabbit down on his desk and began to shift through his papers until he gathered what he wanted. "Here, all my research!"

Haytham took it and looked through it. "Are you sure you don't want another type of lizard? Maybe something little less… labor intensive?"

"All lizards need heat and light, Daddy. Bearded dragons are just a bit hardier, plus, they are a desert lizard so don't require humidity like a tropical lizard."

"Alright, I'll discuss it with your mother and look through your research," Haytham said. "Are you sure you don't want a fish or a turtle?"

"No, I want a bearded dragon," Connor said. Haytham sighed, nodded and walked off to go read the research.

It was thorough, and Ziio agreed to allow Connor to get a lizard so long as he doesn't feed it cockroaches. So, Haytham bought the tank, the tile, the lights and heat, and helped Connor set it up, though he ended up handing more things to Connor, which he was find with, since his son clearly knew what he was doing. Then Haytham went searching for a lizard breeder, armed only with his son's photo of the tank set up. He founded a breeder, who was rather impressed that Connor had a good set up and sold Haytham a healthy year old male.

The lizard, whom Connor named Noodle, quickly adjusted to his new home, and all the other pets and soon Connor was running around the house, bird on one shoulder, rat on the other, bunny in his arms, dog and cat at his heels and now the lizard sitting on his head. When Jacob Frye invited Connor to his party he and his twin, Evie, were having to celebrate their birthday, Connor politely declined, stating he couldn't leave his precious animals in the care of his parents.

The rat died a year after they acquired the bearded dragon, and Haytham went out the next day to acquire another one; a surprise that Connor was quiet taken with and naming the rat Nozzle.

Haytham found himself once more staring at his son, his pets around him. "What do you want this time?" Haytham asked, sitting at the dining table drinking some tea.

"I want a little sister," Connor said with a straight face. Haytham choked on his tea, spilling half of it down his front.

"You _what_?" he asked. Connor snickered.

"No, I want another pet."

"Connor, no. You have enough," Haytham said, if he allowed this to continue soon his son will be asking for a horse or the entire Boston Zoo.

"Really? Jeez, all I wanted as a fish," Connor mumbled.

"Why a fish now?"

"Well, I have pretty much every pet, save a spider, but Ista said no spiders…. So, I want a fish."

"Alright, fine, you can have a fish. Just one fish," Haytham said. "You have a spot?"

"Yes, right next to Noodle's tank," Connor said. "Can we go tomorrow after school?"

"Yes, I'll pick you up after school and we will get you a goldfish," Haytham said.

The following day, father and son went to the pet shop, bought a tank, gravel, flitters, the entire kit and caboodle, and the one big fat goldfish, whom got saddled with the utterly cliché name of Bubbles.

Ziio had to peek at her son's room when she got home from work. "Wow," she looked around, noting the goldfish tank next to the lizard's terrarium. "You effectively have a zoo in here, Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio said.

"You like it?" Connor asked.

"I'm glad you're dedicated to your pets," Ziio said, putting her hand on her son's head. "I'm sure you'll be very pleased once your father tells you the good news," Ziio said. Connor watched his mother leave his room in search of his father, "Haytham? Haytham, where are you! I have something to tell you!"

Connor smiled at he closed the door, wondering what his mother could possibly tell his father. He sat down at his desk, about to start on his homework when he heard a thump and his mother shouting, "Oh my god, Haytham! Honey, are you alright?"

"Wonder what Ista told him," Connor muttered to his pets, knowing whatever it was he'd find out tomorrow.

* * *

 **I see Connor as the kid with all the pets and he's very dedicated to each and every one of them.**

 **Guesses as to what Ziio told Haytham?**

 **Now, let's see if I can't pull of some smutty Connorline for ya'll. I'm behind on my sexual Sunday offerings.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **I'll just assume you hate this story if you don't review.**

 **-Nemo**


	22. Immortality

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _Love can transcend life times_ _—_ _unknown_

* * *

" _Mother! Mother! Mother!" the little boy screamed, as a man dragged him away. He kicked, arm out stretched reaching for me. "Mother!"_

 _The flames licked around me, hot, hungry and consuming. The wood of the longhouse creaked, it wouldn't last much longer as I watched the boy… my son, yes definitely my son… be taken away to safety. "I love you," I whispered mournfully. The wood creaks again and the burning ceiling comes crashing down around me._

Ziio jerked awake, her eyes snapping open in the darkness of her bedroom. She takes in several deep breathes, willing her heart to stop racing. Her eyes adjust to the gloom and she sees the clock on the nightstand beside her bed; in bold green numbers, the time reads 3:30 am. Ziio saw a picture on the nightstand, two actually, one was of the little boy from her dreams. His hair wasn't unruly but brushed back until it shined, a mischievous grin on his face. It was a school photo of her son, Connor. The second was a family picture, her, her husband and son, at Yellowstone last summer.

 _Husband? Yes, that's right. I'm married. I've been married for eight years. No, that's impossible, he left me. Left me before I realized I was pregnant with Ratonhnhaké:ton._ Ziio frowned, pressing her knuckles against her forehead. She heard someone mumble besides her. She started, before slowly rolling over. She expected her son, but instead there was a grown man in bed beside her. Her first instinct was to kick him out of bed and demand to know what he was doing here.

 _It's just Haytham_ , she told herself after a few moments of intense staring. _Yes, that's right. Haytham Kenway. My husband. But that can't be. We never got married and he's a Templar!_ Ziio frowned at the strange thought. _Templar? That's impossible. That was an order of medieval knights, long since dead. No, Haytham's a lawyer, I'm a vet, and we have a son named Connor. I don't die in a fire._ Ziio closed her eyes, trying to shift through these lucid dream-memories and her actual memories.

She remembers now. She met Haytham in college, by accident. She had ran into him, spilling coffee on a horrible orange sweater he was wearing. He didn't seemed too upset about the sweater, stating that his mother made him put it on since she felt it was too nippy for her precious boy. They started dating; broke up once over a fight, but eventually drifted back together and got married.

Haytham shifted again in his sleep. Ziio sighed and watched him sleep. His dark hair was loose, pooling around his shoulders. One arm ducked beneath his pillow while his other rested on top of it, by his head. Ziio noted that Haytham was starting to grey at the temples. Ziio loved watching him sleep, seeing him utterly relaxed like that always made her smile.

An image flashed over him, of clothes from a bygone time, a ghostly tricorner hat perching upon his head, and a secret hidden blade upon his wrist, the edge of the gauntlet poking out from beneath his pillow. Ziio shook her head and the image faded. A shock of hair fell across Haytham's cheek.

Ziio reached out and pushed it behind his ear. He twitched, but didn't wake. She poked him in the cheek a few times before he slowly opened one eye. "Ziio?" he whispered sleepily.

"Hey," she mumbled, tucking her head in the crook of her elbow.

"What are you doing up?" Haytham asked, grabbing her hand with the one he tucked beneath his pillow.

"I had that dream again," she said, "The one where I die in a fire."

"Ah."

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" Ziio asked, wiggling her hand, so hers is on top so she can stroke his knuckles.

"Not really, why?" Haytham asked.

"I keep having dreams. Though, they feel more like memories. Back during the colonial period, you… or someone that looks a lot like you, came from England looking for something. He had a strange medallion, claimed it was a key. I… or, the woman that I inhabit during the dream, recognized the medallion and agreed to show the man the place if he helped her defeat a man named Edward Braddock. Haytham are you listening?" Ziio asked.

"Uh-huh," Haytham mumbled, "Edward Braddock…"

Ziio smacked him in the shoulder. "Haytham, listen! This is important!"

"I'm tired and I have work in the morning," he grumbled, rolling onto his back and putting a hand over his eyes. "Go on," he prompted.

"He agreed to help with the Braddock issue and the following summer Braddock fell by his hand. I showed him the ancestral cave of my people, and we…" Ziio stopped.

"What? Don't stop now, it was getting to the good part," Haytham said, in a lightly sarcastic tone. Ziio frowned.

"We kissed and sometimes the dream goes into more detail than just that…" Ziio mumbled, blushing.

"Sounds like a good dream," Haytham quipped.

"Anyway," Ziio stressed, "after that the man and I spend some time together, a couple of months, until we learn that Braddock survived for four days after the attack. I was livid that he'd lie to me like that. That he used me only for his own personal gain and didn't care about me or my people. He tried to explain, but I wouldn't let him and he eventually left under pain of death. I never saw him again. I had a little boy, I named him Ratonhnhaké:ton. I was happy with my life until one day when someone put my village to the torch and my son watched me burn to death."

"Isn't Ratonhnhaké:ton our son's middle name?" Haytham asked.

"Yes," Ziio said. "Isn't that uncanny!"

"Sounds to me like you've been reading too many Revolutionary War novels," Haytham said. "It's just a dream Ziio." He rolled over and cupped her cheek. "There is no such thing as reincarnation."

"Really? Tell me you don't feel like we've known each other for much longer than what we've actually have," Ziio said, she pulled his hand away from her face, kissing the palm before putting it down on the bed between them, intertwining their fingers.

"Ziio," Haytham sighed.

"Haytham, tell me!"

"I…" he paused, "sometimes. Sometimes I look at Connor and think 'I never actually got to see this. I never got to teach him this!'" Haytham frowned, "which is stupid really since I've been with him since he was born. Though the most disturbing is that sometimes I think he'll kill me one day because I'm a Templar and he's an Assassin, and then I feel a sharp pain in my neck."

"So you aren't the only one!" Ziio gasped.

"They're just dreams and I think it's because I've been so busy at the office lately. Maybe we should take a trip."

"Your death, what happens when you die in these dreams?" Ziio pressed.

"Ziio, this is idiotic!" Haytham pulled his hand away from hers.

"Just tell me," Ziio whispered. "Please."

"Connor and I are fighting. He wears a white hooded robe. He's looking for the someone but I've sent that person away with the medallion… the name escapes me, but he was a close friend. We fight, there's canon fire coming from ships in the bay. I manage to pin him down, I'm choking him and babble some philosophical nonsense, and then he thrusts his hand at my face, like he means to punch me, but instead a knife appears and stabs me in the neck."

"Our son isn't a killer," Ziio hissed, "and he loves you. You know that."

"Of course I know that," Haytham snipped, though a small smile appears. "He's like my shadow on my days off."

"In my dream I tell the man my name."

"Let me guess he says Kaneihtí:io perfectly," Haytham said.

"No," Ziio breathed. "He doesn't. He calls me Gotdz-zio, I tell him to call me Ziio and he—"

"Calls you Diio. You snap and say it's _Z_ iio," Haytham finished.

"How… did you know?" Ziio whispered.

"….guess," Haytham mumbled. "Maybe these are memories or whatever, the point is that it happened a long time ago," Haytham looked at Ziio, "we're different. The situation is different. They are just dreams."

"If they are real memories from our past… do you think? Do you think you loved me back then?"

Haytham turned and cupped Ziio's cheek again. "Of course I did. I love you now and I loved you then, and I will love you in every life time, for as long as there are life times to live." Haytham said and pressed a kiss to Ziio's forehead.

"I loved you then too and I love you now," she breathed, snuggling closer to her husband. She heard Haytham mumble something, but what she couldn't say. Sleep took over her again and she didn't even notice the thin beam of light coming from the hall.

Connor looked at the ghostly figure of the white robed man. "See," he said in a soft voice, "I told you Ista and Raké:ni, love each other." The man didn't say anything, just turned to Connor and nodded, placing a comforting hand on the boy's head before he vanished. "Goodbye Ratonhnhaké:ton."

* * *

 _Beneath the candle bed, two souls with everything yet to be said!_ _—_ _Nightwish_

* * *

 **A NaruSasu comic where Naruto and Sasuke are modern boys talking about stuff and Sasuke has a weird flashback of a beat up Naruto from the manga's setting; I adapted it to fit Haytham, Ziio and Connor loosely inspired this. What I really wanted was to write Ziio watching Haytham sleep when I remembered that NS comic and was like OH YEAH! PERFECT!**

 **Hope you liked it!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **I'll assume you hated this if you don't review.**

 **-Nemo**


	23. Stay for Dinner

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

The first time Aveline visited Connor's Homestead had a very short and prompt business-like feel to it where she dropped off Patience, stayed the night and began to long journey back to New Orleans.

Now she was back again, upon Connor's request. He spoke of an idea in his letter of merging the two Brotherhoods into one, in an effort to allow the freer exchange of information now that the American Revolution was over and Connor found himself with a rapidly expanding American Brotherhood. She agreed and set off to meet Connor at his Homestead.

She journeyed by herself, much to Gérald's displeasure. She knew the way, and the trip was easy enough. Aveline reached the valley where Connor's Homestead was located early evening, and not wanting to traveler any further stopped at Oliver and Corinne's inn. She had met the cheery couple on her previous visit to the Homestead with Patience.

"Aveline!" Corinne called out, when Aveline had stepped into the large common area. "Welcome back, welcome back!" the plump woman wrapped Aveline up in a crushing hug. "So good to see you again, deary; sit, sit I'll get some stew for you! Ollie, Aveline's back!"

"Is she now?" Oliver asked, coming up from the cellar with a barrel of ale. "By Jove, she is! Welcome back, Aveline! How long do you intend to be staying?" Oliver asked, passing off the heavy barrel when one of his strong-back hirelings came and took it from him.

"Just for the night," Aveline replied, "I came to see Connor."

"You have now? Well that's wonderful," Oliver said, "you know sometimes Corinne and I worry about him. All alone up in that large house Achilles left him. From what I hear, he has no family left."

"Here you are deary," Corinne set a steaming bowl of stew before Aveline. "Ollie, don't you have an inn to run?"

"Just tellin' her about Connor," Oliver huffed. "He'll be glad to see you."

"I'm sure," Aveline said with a smile.

"About time he settles down too, poor boy, alone up there by himself," Corinne tutted as she herded, "Never been quite right after the war."

Aveline watched them go, eating her stew in silence and wondering what that was all about; she liked Connor in the same way, she liked Gérald. Though she had to admit Connor was rather striking beneath that hood. Aveline felt her cheeks flush at the thought, hoping that her long dormant maternal instincts weren't kicking in. She had too many things left to do before settling down for motherhood.

Aveline rose early the following morning, and began the walk up towards Connor's homestead. " _Bonjour_ , Aveline!" a voice called her from up ahead. Aveline always liked speaking with Norris, since they both felt comfortable speaking in French to each other.

"Norris, _bonjour_ , what brings you down this way?" Aveline asked.

"Corinne had some extra bread from yesterday and I agreed to take it off her hands," Norris replied, "what brings you so far from Nouvelle Orléans?"

"I'm here to see Connor," Aveline replied.

" _Merveilleux!_ " Norris broke out into a large grin. "I see you don't have any flowers, which is a good thing. I don't think flowers is a good gift for Connor. Hmm… maybe a new knife would be more to his liking."

"I'm not—"

"I'll tell Myriam, she'd be pleased to hear that you've come back. _Au Revoir_ , Aveline!" Norris said and continued on his way towards the inn. Aveline huffed, wondering what was with everyone when she said that she was here to see Connor. It was almost as if everyone was expecting her… Aveline shook her head, there was nothing going on between her and Connor. They've exchanged letters and met a few times, he even helped her when she came up here following a lead about the Company Man.

If anything, she'd considered Connor a close friend. He understood her in ways that Gérald never could. He could relate to her frustration about being a part of two worlds yet belonging fully to neither, her desire to see her mother's people free, her struggle in fitting in with her father's society. Her own questions about the Brotherhood and the lost of her mentor; Connor understood those issues. "We're just friends," she muttered to herself as she continued her way towards the manor house.

She passed by Warren and Prudence's farm, and nearly tripped over their escaping toddler. Aveline had cat-like reflexes, and was able to prevent herself from following and catching the child. "Thank you, thank you… oh, Aveline!" Prudence said, gasping for breath and taking her child from the New Orleans assassin. "Thank you for catching my little one."

"Your welcome, and the child seems to be quick," Aveline said, tickling the child beneath its chin. The child giggled and squirmed.

"What brings you here?" Prudence asked.

"I'm here to see Connor and—"

"Really? Oh, how wonderful. He's been so… withdrawn after the war and hearing that the Americans forced his people to move from their ancestral lands hasn't helped him either. We all lost so much during the war, but Connor lost the most."

"He hasn't really told me much," Aveline said, then again she wasn't about to pry into his personal affairs without warrant. She figured he'd share them in his own time with her, if he chose. "Save for the fact Achilles died."

"Yes, a tragedy for everyone, but Connor was hit the hardest, but you're here with your pretty smiling face, I'm sure Connor will be back to his old self quickly," Prudence replied.

"I… uhm…."

"And if you need any help don't be shy, come ask me and I'll help. I know where a lovely bunch of prim rose grows," Prudence said with a wink, and kissed her child's temple before heading back to the farm. Aveline frowned, watching as the woman walked off. Aveline was beginning to wonder about these people, they never acted like this before.

She continued along her journey, the sun climbing higher in the sky. She stopped briefly for a quick lunch; thankfully, nobody came by to talk to her. Aveline didn't think she could handle it. She was just here to talk to Connor about the Brotherhood, not anything domestic.

She neared the end of her journey, Connor's manor was in sight. She had been lucky not to get spotted by anyone else after Prudence. Her luck ran out though. "Aveline, pleasure to see you again!"

"Lance," Aveline forced a smile, "pleasure is all mine."

"I just came from Connor's manor, had to fix some things that Patience broke."

"Aah, I see she's still quite a handful," Aveline chuckled. "I'm here to see Connor myself."

"Really? He'd be happy to see you. I'm sure Father Timothy wouldn't mind doing another good service. When Myriam and Norris were married, everyone was so happy. It was a grand celebration, I'm sure if Connor were to wed everyone here would pull out all the stops!" Lance said.

"I'm sure, does he have… someone in mind?" Aveline asked, ignoring the little knot of dread in her stomach. Connor never mentioned to her about a woman in his life.

"Well, isn't that why you're here?" Lance asked, staring at Aveline. Aveline swallowed looking for a way out.

"I think Connor is… probably wondering why I haven't arrived yet, I best be going," Aveline said, taking a step back. "Nice speaking to you," she said.

"Bye Aveline! And remember, I'm rather good at making cradles if you should need one!" Lance shouted. Aveline didn't bother to reply.

She reached Connor's door, knocking on it firmly a few times. It opened with a creak and he stood before her. "Aveline," he said, his smiling brightening his face. She couldn't help but smile in return. He was incredibly handsome when he smiled. "I was starting to wonder when you would be arriving."

"The Homesteaders insisted on engaging me in conversation," Aveline said. "You look well."

"Thank you," Connor inclined his head, "please come in. There is much we have to discuss about."

"Yes," Aveline said, "there is." She will tell him to stop spreading rumors about them being together. "How is Patience's training?"

"It is coming along," Connor said, though by his tone Aveline knew he was having difficulty with the girl. Which was expectable, Aveline thought, remembering her own difficulties with handling Patience. She followed Connor to his study, where they sat and discussed the future of their respective Brotherhoods. In the end it was decided that when Patience was fully trained, she'd head a base South Carolina and Aveline's faction would be officially merged with Connor's.

Aveline glanced at the darkening sky, not fancying a walk all the way back to Oliver and Corinne's inn. "Would you like to stay for dinner?" Connor asked.

Aveline was about to reply when Patience popped her head in and shouted: "Would you like to stay forever?"

Aveline slammed her hands down on Connor's desk, causing the big assassin to jump. "That's it! I've had it with everyone I meet suggesting that there is something going on between me and Connor!" Aveline stood and stared at Connor, who stared back at her with wide amber eyes, clearly confused. She rounded on Patience. "Did you start these rumors?"

"Me? No," Patience huffed.

"Then where do people get the idea that Connor and I are in a relationship?" Aveline snapped.

"Easy, because of him." Patience said, jerking her chin at Connor, who attempted to shoot Patience a glare that said leave me out of this. "Everyone knows he brightens whenever a courier comes with a letter from New Orleans, everyone knows how excited he got you agreed to meet him here. It's subtle, and strangers would never be able to guess, but we all know he fancies you," Patience said with a little shrug and walked off before Aveline or Connor could say anything.

"Aveline look I—" Connor was silence when she kissed him.

"Yes," she said after pulling away, "I'd love to stay for dinner."

* * *

 **For some reason, I have real issues with writing Connorline, yet I can whip up something cute and fluffy for HayZiio in a flash. This bothers me, because I love Connorline, yet HayZiio comes so much easier to me. I don't know why, maybe I need to write a full-length Connorline fic.**

 **Ah well, I wanted to write something cute and fluffy featuring Connor, so this is the end result. The original plan was having the Homesteaders be real protective of Aveline then I had the Mulan idea at the end, so they switched to being fumbling matchmakers. Hahah.**

 **I love the Homestead missions, especially herding the pigs. "The things I do for these people!"**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **If you don't review, I'll assume you hate this story though it was garbage and that I should never write again.**

 **-Nemo**


	24. Kisses in the Rain

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _Da-da-dada-da… Da-da-dada-da… da-da-dada-da_

The rain thuds against the window as she stands before it, sipping a cup of tea. It's windy and stormy and grey, the wet tree bark and dead leaves bright against the gloomy sky-scape. She sips her tea, warm in her oversized sweater. The wind buffets the house and she can smell the moister from the cracked window. Energy buzzes in her limbs, she wants to run and shout and act-like-a-kid-cause-its-fun-to-forget-about-your-responsibilities and dance outside in the rain. She sips her tea again. It's warm, not too warm and she gulps the rest of it down quickly before setting it on the nearby table. She spins around, braids whipping about her head.

She spots him sitting in the plush oversized so-comfy-you'll-never-want-to-leave-it armchair by the fire place where a cheery fire crackles. The cat is on his lap, snoozing happily. She practically skips and pushes the book down. "Ziio!" he says, annoyed, "I was just at the good par—"

Ziio presses her lips against his, shutting him up in the swiftest way possible. She pulls away and rests her forehead against his, grinning. "Come outside with me Haytham," she says and grabs his hand and tugs him to his feet.

"In the rain?" he asks, the cat leaping off his lap. The animal shoots them an annoyed glare but neither care. He sets the book down and his prospective of the world has narrowed to the her.

"Yes!" Ziio cackles, a madwoman's glint in her amber eyes. She spins around, never letting go of his hand, giggles escaping her throat as they head to the door. "I want to dance in the rain!"

"It's forty-five degrees outside, you'll catch your death!" Haytham protests, but she stands on her tip toes and leans into him, forcing him to hold her or risk her falling. She wants to get lost in his eyes, grey-blue maelstroms-storm-tossed-seas-rain-drenched-skies and oh-so hypnotically beautiful eyes; she feels like she's drowning… in-his-soul-oh-god-she-can't-breathe! She presses a quick kiss to his lips before pulling free of him, her hand slipping free from his.

"I want to dance in the rain, let's go silly!" Ziio says in a sing-song-voice, impish delight in her eyes. She slips her shoes on and opens the door, the cascade of the rain loud against the overhang of their porch. She stands in the doorway, her oversized sweater sleeves pooling around her elbows. "Or are you afraid of a little water?" she teases, devilish delight in that smile of hers and she dashes rabbit-quick out into the rain.

Haytham gives chase, putting his shoes and jacket on and closing the door behind him as he runs out into the cold rain to chase her down. Ziio laughs, tossing soggy autumn colored leaves into the air, twirling-twirling-twirling-make-the-world-stop-spinning around. He lunges for her, but she dodges and feints to the side before running around and snagging his hand viper-quick.

She runs, tugging him. He stumbles, holding the hood of his jacket to his head. "Ziio stop this madness!"

"Never!" she shouts with glee, laughing to the sky, mouth open to catch the rain drops on her tongue. She looks at him, squeezing his hand and steals a quick kiss. "Catch me if you can," she whispers, lips brushing against his, her breath smells of tea and is warm against his rain frozen cheek. She lets go of his hand and sprints towards the big tree in their front yard, laughing like a five-year-old girl.

Haytham blinks water out of his eyes and runs towards her, intent on catching her. Mud squelches with each step, the hem of his pants are ruined and the rest of him is soaked. Yet this mad-crazy-beautiful-dear-god-so-beautiful woman is laughing. She feints to the side but he's ready for her this time and catches her around the middle. She squeals like a piglet wriggling to get free from him. He holds her tight though, the rain forgotten, and he presses his forehead against hers.

"Ziio, we're going back inside now," he says, his warm tea scented breath fanning against her face. "I'm cold—"

She holds his neck, thumbs along his jaw and kisses him, questing tongue thrusting its way into his mouth. He kisses back, moans and holds her face in his hands, fingers tangling themselves into her rain-soaked hair. He pulls away reluctantly, but he needs to breathe. Ziio looks up at him, impish smile on her lips, thumbs caressing his jaw. "We're going to catch out death out here," Haytham chides. "Besides I'm cold."

"I can warm you up," Ziio whispers coyly, pressing a kiss to his lips again; the rain isn't so cold anymore.

* * *

 **HayZiio feels!**

 **And Arven's Rainsong.  
Conclusion: This! **

**Save an author; review!**

 **-Nemo**


	25. Bits and Pieces

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _Meeting_

Everything is big and loud and scary-scary-spooky-frightening, he just wants his mommy and daddy, as he stands there sniffling, rubbing his eyes with a small fist, looking at the faces of the people passing by. Connor wonders how his parents could just leave him here? Did they forget him, not want him? He just wants to feel his mommy's kisses and his daddy's strong arms holding him tight, and his parents whispering they'll never-ever-not-in-a-million-years let him go again. "Are you lost?" a green-eyed girl says, standing before him.

Connor stares at her, blinking tears out from his amber eyes. "Uh-huh." He nods. He remembers his daddy telling him not to talk to strangers, but she's a girl, bit taller than him. She must be a big kid and big kids know things that he doesn't. "H-Have you seen my mommy and daddy?" he asks.

"No," the girl says, shaking her head. She wears braids like his mommy but lots of them, with red ribbons woven in. He thinks they are pretty. "I can take you to where you can find your mommy and daddy though."

"Really?" he asks, hope burning in his small chest. She smiles, warm and kind, and holds out her hand. Connor grasps it, and allows her to take him through the sea of people. Nobody notices them, this taller girl and smaller boy. "Where's your mommy and daddy?" he asks, wondering why she's alone too.

"I'm lost too," she says, "but I know how to find our parents." They weave through the crowd, there are so many people and he's scared, squeezing the girl's hand tightly. She smiles at him, green eyes bright with warmth, and continues boldly through the sea of humanity. Connor thinks she's brave and pretty just like his mommy, he feels safe with her like he does when he's with his daddy.

They near a wooden counter, with an official looking person is talking to two people. Connor squeaks recognizing them. He lets go of the girl's hands, sprinting hurry-hurry-hurry-quickly-now towards his parents. "Ista! Raké:ni!" Connor shouts, tears — when did he start crying? — sting the corners of his eyes.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton! Connor!" his parents shout and he barrels into his daddy's arms, clinging tightly to him. He feels his mommy's hand on his back and his daddy's familiar cologne tickles his nose. He doesn't really hear his parents chiding him about wandering off, he looks down and notices that the girl has found her own parents. She turns, as if sensing he was looking for her, smiles and waves goodbye-see-again-one-day-goodbye to him. Connor waves to her and rests his head against his daddy's shoulder, tiny arms slipping around his daddy's neck, clinging to him monkey-tight.

* * *

 _Glances_

The school is strange and confusing and not Toto-we're-not-in-Kansas-anymore New Orleans. Aveline wants to be back in the bayou, where gators eye you from the murky waters and cicadas buzz in the trees. Boston is cold and grey and immovable no-life-no-green-no-blanket-of-heat. Then she sees _him_.

It took a moment for her to realize who he is, but Aveline is sure-as-hell-never-forget-that it's him. The boy she met at the mall years and years ago. He's standing on the edge hanging back from the crowd, quiet and observing and she can't help but be drawn to him like a moth to the flame quiet-heart-stop-beating-so-loud! Aveline is frozen-deer-caught-in-the headlights unable to move, and she watches his gaze fall on her and time slows down just-like-it-does-in-those-movies and his eyes widen in recognition.

Aveline ducks into her classroom then. She can't-can't-can't-not-yet-too-soon-too-fast deal with it just yet. She wants to scream and rage and flail against it all. The bell rings and he walks in, nodding to whatever his friend is saying. She steals a glance at him. He doesn't notice and she grins. She steals glances at him for the rest of the school year.

* * *

 _Snowflakes_

There's no starlight in Boston. Only cold harsh street lights, and snowflakes drifting down-down-deeper-down into the white frozen landscape. Aveline hate-hate-hate-hates it and wishes for the warmth of the sun to return to the world.

She's sitting out here in this cold frozen city, without a job she-just-got-fired-great. She sips at the beer she swiped, wondering what she should do now. Her apartment is cold and friendless; she wants to avoid the-all-consuming-loneliness-careful-don't-let-it-swallow-you it. She pulls her fluffy coat around her and shivers, breath coming out in little white puffs. A snowflake lands on her nose.

"Are you okay?" a voice asks. Aveline looks up and nearly drops the beer in her hand, it tasted like horse-piss anyway. It's him, the boy from the mall… wait, boy? No, he's a man. A tall man with broad shoulders, strong hands and kind-gentle-stop-beating-so-fast-heart!-beautiful eyes.

"I'm fine," Aveline says, picking up her beer, the glass cold to her touched. She doesn't want it anymore.

"Are you sure?" He sits down next to her, eyeing the scuzzy looking men that pass by. She can't help by smile, spooking the undesirables away. "Can I walk you home?"

Aveline feels her cheeks turn pink. Chivalry is dead isn't it? "It's okay, I can find my way back."

"I insist," he says, those hypnotic-I-told-you-to-stop-beating-so-fast-heart-amber eyes of his bore holes into her and she has to, no _must!_ look away for fear of drowning into those golden pools. She doesn't and finds herself drowning-deep-deep-deeper into his beautiful eyes.

"Alright," she says, caving. He smiles and her heart skips a beat at the sight. He has a beautiful smile and it seems to melt the icy grip that holds Boston hostage. They stand together and she tosses the beer into the trash. They walk side by side down the street through the ankle deep snow. The conversation is slow at first but as each block melts away, it becomes more animated, wild gesticulations and ripples of joyous laughter.

Aveline scowls at her apartment door when they reach it. She wants it to go away, since it means that she must say goodbye to this boy-no-he's-a-man-now that she's had a crush on since high school. "So… uh, I better go," he says, awkwardly. She notices that he looks at his feet, and agrees that anything other than _him_ is much more interesting at the moment, right?

She touches his arm, light and hesitant, quickly drawing it away. "Thank you,' she says, smiling at him. "For walking me home."

"My parents raised me to be a gentleman," he says, a quirky smile on his lips. "I'm Connor by the way."

"Aveline," she replies, leaning against the doorframe and wondering what it would feel like to be wrapped up in his big strong arms. Impulsively she pulls out a pen, she always has a pen on her like a good journalist should, grabs his hand and scribbles her number on his palm. "Call me," she says and opens her door and slips in.

* * *

 _Kisses_

He did call her. They talked for hours and hours until both their phones died but that's why they have chargers and talked for hours more. Aveline never thought they had so much in common but they do and she loves it and oh-god-oh-god she wants to see him again.

Patience notices her bubbly mood and smiles knowingly, but Aveline ignores those smiles and those looks her roommate shoots her way, especially on the day of their first date.

Is awkward and embarrassing and Aveline wonders _what ever_ did she see in him. Yet, she realizes that despite the fact Connor is awkward around women, he has a good heart and wants only to see her smile so she forgives him and doesn't try to steal a kiss when he walks her home again.

They go out again, it's still awkward, but he's less clumsy this time, and actually leans in for a kiss before he decides against it, mumbling an apology. She wants to smack him and kiss him at the same time god-man-can't-you-get-it, but she tells him it's okay and bids him good night. It's not until the eighth date that he finally kisses her.

Actually, she kisses him because this glass wall was getting to be the elephant in the room and she hates glass walls, so she grabs him and plants one on his lips, which still taste like the red wine they had at dinner with lingering notes of the ice cream they ate on the walk home. She pulls away to stare into his eyes, his large warm hands around hers, and they just stand there as if time froze because Connor just got his first kiss. She's counting heartbeats and before she gets to three he leans in, figuring it out he's a quick learner, and this time it's longer with some tongue surprise, surprise. "Night," he whispers, soft and sultry; his breath is warm against her face and Aveline has memories of the deep bayou in New Orleans and she smiles. He leaves her standing, bereft of his presents in the hall.

She returns to her apartment and tiptoes into her room, not that it's needed a rock concert could have happened and Patience would sleep through it. She curls up in her bed and squeezes her pillow tight, squealing into the mattress like a small girl.

* * *

 _Starlight_

Aveline is only half listening to what Connor is saying as they lay in the field. It's the middle of July, the air smells of the sweet grass and crickets chirp and it's still humid in the middle of the night. They are laying on a blanket, stargazing because it was Connor's idea and she never did it before and he's full of stories his mother's mother told him about that half-remembered time before the Europeans came to these shores.

The stars are bright, and Aveline points to Milky Way and asks if the Mohawks had a story about that. "Oh yes, it's a good story," Connor says and launches in to it. He tells it slowly, Aveline wonders if he only ever heard it in Mohawk and must translate it into English in order to tell her it.

"That's sad," she says when he finishes it. She rolls onto her side and looks at him. She traces patterns on his bare chest, he had forgone his shirt. He shivers even though both know it's not cold at all. He cups her cheek and strokes it with his thumb. She smiles at him and smiles in return. She's convince it's his best feature and gets butterflies whenever he smiles at her because she knows those are his secret-smiles-meant-only for her.

"I don't think so; I think it's a powerful tale. They still love each other, even if they are separated," Connor says, and sits up slightly. "Red strings of fate can't be broke so easily, Aveline," he whispers, his voice soft and husky and Aveline can't help but shiver and lean in close to him.

They kiss. It lights a fire in her belly that has been smoldering for a terribly-oh-god-has-it-been-so-long time now. His strong hands pull her into his lap and she breaks the kiss to press her lips against his cheeks and nose and chin before finding his lips again. She nips his lips, and thrusts her tongue in and he lets her, maybe he's just has hungry for this as she is.

This is hardly their first time, Connor is shy but not that shy and he had gotten the hang of this activity rather quickly, he's a quick learner after all. "Connor," she whispers, and tilts her head back for him to kiss her throat, his hands beneath her shirt and she moans.

The night seems to get cooler yet his kisses sear her skin and she grins her hips against his and he bucks. She giggles an impish-devilish-Aphrodite glint in her eyes, and kisses his throat, nipping so all will know that he is hers.

Little by little, her clothes are removed and his lisp find each new tantalizing bit of skin and sears her flesh with his touches and kisses and oh-gods-oh-gods that fire in her belly in a roaring blaze now. She wants him and pulls him close, hoping to drown with him in that pit of sinful desire. They move in harmony, the summer breeze cool against their skin, and she mutters his name in his ear, yipping with each roll of his hips.

It crescendos to a climatic finish and Aveline swears the stars are brighter and if there's a heaven on earth it's here with him and please-please-please let this moment last forever. They lay beneath the stars, panting and holding each other close. "Let's hope it doesn't start to rain," Connor mumbles, Aveline wonders if he's joking or not.

She kisses his nose before whispering, "don't jinx it Connor."

* * *

 **And…. That's it.**

 **I always seem to** _ **fail**_ **epically at Connorline. Grrrr! This is frustrating! And I had such a good idea too and it started out so nice too and gaaaah! I will write a spectacular Connorline piece one day! Just you wait! If I have to make my fingers bleed I will!**

 **Also, I really** _ **hate**_ **begging for reviews! It's not that hard, yes I'm looking at you followers that read but don't review! I just assume you don't like my stories when you don't review. It takes twenty seconds to string some words together to make a couple of sentences telling me what your thoughts are. Ramble if you must! I don't care! Just tell me, leave me bloody damn feedback!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Seriously!**

 **-Nemo**


	26. Pillow Fight

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

What had they just watched? Connor leaned back against the couch, holding the remote, arm dangling over the edge. He still couldn't figure it out. He glanced at Aveline, staring dumbly at the TV, a few kernels of popcorn half way to her mouth. She blinked, staring at the screen as the credits rolled. He still couldn't figure out what they had just watched. "So, uh… interesting movie?" he asked, petting his dog's head. Aquila sighed, head resting in his lap.

"What the hell?" Aveline said, looking at him, setting her uneaten popcorn back in the bowl. "What was that even about?"

"Don't know," Connor said and grabbed the DVD box and read the back. "Apparently it got good reviews."

"So, did she get out of the asylum or did she get her brain scrambled?" Aveline sat the bowl of popcorn onto the table. "It even get decent reviews?"

"Yeah, though nothing to write home about," Connor said, glancing again at the DVD box. "I'll give it back to Ezio."

"Tell him it sucked. Why did he even buy it?"

"Hot chicks," Connor said flatly.

" _Cher Dieu_ ," Aveline muttered rolling her eyes. "How can Sofia even… I don't understand what Sofia sees in him."

"She claims he's witty and charming," Connor said with a shrug. "We could watch another movie…"

Aveline shook her head. She was tired of sitting on the couch watching TV. _Suckerpunch_ was a horrible film and she wanted to move and do something. She shifted against the pillows. _Pillows… oh yeah!_ Aveline thought with a grin and pulled the pillow out from behind her back, holding it at the corner. She turned to look at Connor who had pulled the big DVD case out from bottom shelf of the end table. He was rambling off movie titles as he flipped through it. He liked movies. Aveline cleared her throat.

"Huh… you wanna watch _Master and Commander_?" Connor asked, fingers on the disk that was tucked safely into its sleeve. He eyed the pillow in his girlfriend's hand then her face. He arched a brow. "I don't follow you…" he said. Aveline raised her hand over her head, a wicked good grin on her face. His eyes widened and Aquila lifted her head to look at Aveline. "Aveline, don't you dare!" Connor growled.

She dared and brought the pillow down upon his head. Aquila slipped off the couch, tail wagging and she whined, wanting to bark but not wanting to get into trouble. Aveline laughed and lifted the pillow up again only to slam it into Connor's face. "That's it!" Connor growled, putting the case of DVDs aside and grabbing his own pillow. He smacked Aveline when she lifted her fluffy weapon. She grunted, laughing, rolling off the couch, losing her pillow in the process.

"I need more ammo!" she declared with a cackle and sprinted off to their bedroom.

"Aveline come back here!" Connor shouted dropping his couch pillow and running after her. Aquila whined, following her master. Aveline dove onto the bed, grabbing the big goose down pillow Connor used. She cackled when he jumped onto the bed and she brought the pillow down onto his head repeatedly. He smacked it away, trying to crawl towards her, but she threw her pillow at him. "Heh!" he smirked, holding his new weapon. He started to pummel her with it.

Aveline squealed, blindly hitting Connor with her pillow. "You… big… dork!" she squealed, wriggling on the bed. He somehow managed to straddle her hips. She smacked him again, but he smacked her pillow out of her hands with his. He dropped his pillow and pinned her wrists above her head.

"You'll regret starting this war," he purred, a glint in his amber eyes.

"Never! I regret nothing!" she shouted, a playful note in her voice. Connor gave her a devilish smirk before leaning back and blowing a raspberry on exposed stomach. Aveline squealed, legs kicking frantically. "Connor! Connor! Hahaha! Stop it Connor!" Aveline shouted as he continued to blow raspberries on her stomach.

"Beg for mercy," he chimed, looking at her, a cocky smirk on his face. Grinning, Aveline stared at him and shook her head. He shrugged, a tragic expression on his face before blowing another raspberry on her stomach. Aveline laughed, but it quickly turned into a gasp of surprise when she felt his tongue slip into her naval.

"Connor…" Aveline moaned. He looked up at her, leaned forward and kissed her. She hungrily returned it.

"What about now?" he breathed, his nose touching hers. Aveline chewed her lip, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Or do I need to torture you some more?" Connor asked, pecking her lips. Aveline was about to reply when the bed sagged and a wet slobbery tongue interjected.

"Ack, Aquila!" Aveline shouted, squirming away. Connor yelped as he got a mouthful of dog tongue. Aquila gave a soft woof, tail wagging happily.

* * *

 **Instead of some steamy hot HayZiio, you get fluffy cute Connorline.**

 **I'm actually pleased with this. It's cute and fluffy. And Aquila is a husky.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**

 **PS: I live for feed back.**


	27. Snowflakes

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Haytham needed to get away from the stuffy heat of the tavern. Night had fallen and the wind was crisp and chill, thick white blankets of snow covered the ground, and grey clouds were drifting in from the north to cover the bright stars. The wind gusted, causing him to shiver and he pulled his cloak around him, blowing on his hands. It started to snow, a few flakes at first then slowly more, until it was hard to see between the falling snowflakes.

"What are you doing?" a voice asked, Haytham didn't jump out of his skin, but his heart quickened as the shadow materialized into a woman. Haytham was baffled that she wasn't cold.

"Aren't you cold, Ziio?" he asked. The Mohawk woman's lips quirked up into a mischievous smirk and she glanced up at the falling snow, blinking against it.

"You didn't answer my question," she stated. "What are you doing?"

"I had to get away," he said, closing the gap between them, the snow crunching beneath his boots. "The tavern was too stuffy."

Ziio chuckled at a private joke that he wasn't a part of. "Walk with me," she said and headed towards the forest. Haytham watched her go marveling at how she seemingly vanished into the trees; turning to face the tavern when he heard the door open. Shay walked out, a quizzical look on his face.

"Sir?" Shay asked, watching Haytham. Haytham didn't say anything, turning his attention away from Shay and the tavern where the other Templars were, and headed towards the tree line where he knew Ziio was waiting. Haytham heard Shay retreat back into the tavern, the door squeaking close.

He didn't see her at first, but her smaller hand found his larger one and she tugged him along. "What was going on in there?" she asked, as they walked through the shin deep snow.

"Oh, nothing important, just a trivial matter," Haytham said dismissively, the reveling in the tavern — in his honor no less — had already been forgotten as soon as Ziio took his hand. "I thought you weren't going to find me until we were ready to attack Braddock?"

"What trivial matter were you discussing?" Ziio asked, ignoring the comment about Braddock. Haytham chewed his lip wondering how much he should tell this woman. He liked her, was fascinated by her, but too much blood and betrayal had happened in his life and he felt reluctant to open up to anyone. Ziio looked back at him, an inquiry in her amber eyes. He licked his lips.

"My birthday," he said simply.

"How many winters?" she asked, pausing briefly to listen to the silence. Haytham followed her lead, allowing the quiet of the forest to seep into his bones. He could hear himself breathing and in the distance the _whomp_ of snow falling off an over-laden branch. The wind gusted through the trees and he shivered. Winter never felt this cold in England, at least he never remembered it being this cold. Then again the native Bostonians often said that you haven't seen true winter until experiencing a winter in Massachusetts.

"Twenty-nine," Haytham said. Ziio turned and looked at him, head rising and lowering slowly in a highly appraising manner.

"I thought you were younger," she said and began walking again. Haytham sputtered, stumbling as she tugged at his hand.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked. Ziio flashed him a mysterious little smile as they crested the hill. Haytham saw a little encampment. "You've been following me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Ziio said with a snort, "I was hunting, and I happened to see that one fellow that is always with you? The angry looking one."

"Charles?" Haytham asked, arching his brow. Ziio gave a nod. Haytham made a little amused sound in the back of his throat. "He's not angry, Ziio, just… passionate."

She arched a brow, not believing him. She let go of his hand, and walked towards her fire. The embers were low, yet she had gathered wood previously. She mulled over her gathered logs before selecting a few and dumping them onto the fire. She sat down on a fallen tree and patted the space beside her. Haytham pursed his lips together. "I really should go," he said, feeling awkward.

"Why?" Ziio asked. Haytham opened his mouth, trying to think of an excuse to return to the tavern, his men, the merrymaking they held in his honor, yet he couldn't think of any. Truth was, if he allowed himself to admit it, he'd rather spend his time with Ziio.

"This… isn't proper," Haytham muttered, but sat down beside her anyway. Ziio looked at him in askance. "You are an attractive young woman… out here without… a chaperon…"

"Why," Ziio drawled, leaning close to him, "are you embarrassed to be out here with me? You didn't have a problem before."

"Before we were working together… this is altogether different," Haytham said, refusing to meet her gaze. Ziio chuckled, and Haytham knew his cheeks were pink and it wasn't from the biting cold.

"Rest assure, Haytham," Ziio said, the tone of her voice caused him to look at her, "I won't let you breach any boundaries unless I want you to." There was a glint in her eyes, and Haytham knew she didn't speak falsely.

"I'm not going to take advantage of you," Haytham said, his voice soft. Ziio smirked, before looking up at the sky. The snow had lessened, a snowflake landed on her nose, and a girlish smile light up her face and Haytham felt his heart flutter.

"What does your name mean?" he asked, in an effort to break the silence that had fallen between them. Ziio wiped her nose and looked at him.

"Why?" she asked.

"Curiosity," Haytham said, rolling his shoulders and pulling his cloak around him tighter. He cupped his hands and blew on them, trying to get some feeling back into his fingers. The fire was struggling to revive itself, the logs Ziio had given it earlier had yet to catch.

"Kaneihtí:io means _beautiful snow_ ," Ziio said, glancing at him. "And your name?"

" _Young eagle_ , it's Arabic," Haytham said, a quick smiling gracing his lips. "I had to tell the other children what it meant. They always thought it rather odd."

"It suits you," Ziio said, and Haytham whipped his head in her direction to stare at her for several long moments. It had stopped snowing, and the moon, half-full, had finally reappeared, casting the world in a brilliant silver glow. "You are proud, like the eagles."

Haytham swallowed, thickly. "Thank you," he breathed, not knowing what else to say. There was a spark, then a pop and the fire caught the logs. Haytham looked at it, staring into the flames. He presented his hands to the source of heat and sighed, feeling the cold retreat from his fingers. "So, why did you bring me out there?"

Ziio shrugged, watching the flames, a mischievous smirk on her face as she scooted closer to him. "I have my reasons," she whispered.

"And what are they?"

Ziio grinned, tilting her head from side to side. "Catch me and I'll tell you," Ziio quipped. Haytham frowned, looking at the landscape around them. Ziio had a distinct advantage in the frozen landscape.

"Catch you?" Haytham asked, as she stood up. "Why would—mmmfffph!" cold snow covered his face suddenly and Ziio's laughter echoed in his ears. He felt a breeze on the top of his head. He wiped the snow from his face and saw Ziio, a few feet away with his hat on her head and a snowball in her hand. Haytham wouldn't admit it, but she did look rather stunning in his hat. "Ziio, give me my hat back, please," Haytham said, standing up.

She smiled. "No, you have to catch me first." She tossed the snowball, but he was ready and ducked. He scooped up some snow, molding it into a ball, and tossed it in Ziio's direction. She dodged, running off through the snow-covered woods. Haytham had no choice but to give chase.

The forest rang with Ziio's laughter and Haytham's shouts for her to slow down, come back, you mad woman stop! Among other things. Haytham soon found himself, huffing and puffing, his breath coming out in little white clouds. He stared glanced up at the sky, guessing it was sometime passed midnight. He needed to take a break, feeling winded, his hands on his knees as he took gulps of freezing winter air. "Are you giving up? Don't want your hat back?" Ziio called. Haytham looked up to see her, only a few feet away. She had a cocky grin on her face, hands on her hips and his hat on her head. He chuckled.

"I want it back, you devil-possessed woman!" Haytham shouted, straightening, he had his respite and gave a burst of speed as he charged up the hill. His sudden energy caught Ziio off guard and he succeeded in grabbing her around the middle. They fell into the snow, tumbling down the hill with muffled gasps of surprise. They stopped tumbling, sliding the last few feet to the base.

Ziio laughed, her hands laced together behind his neck. Haytham stared at her for several moments, before chuckling himself. It was rather fun and somehow his hat still remained on her head. "I'll be taking my hat back now," he said, grabbing the point. Ziio giggled, pulling him down and pecking his lips.

"Oh really?" she asked, a coy glint in her eyes. Haytham stared at her moonstruck. "I'd like to see you try," she said, nipping his chin. Haytham jerked away, surprised by the sudden bold contact.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he growled, which only caused the glint in her eyes to twinkle brighter, "Ziio."

"Am I?" she asked, hands sliding down to his chest. Her fingertips tapped out a rhythm only she knew before pushing him unexpectedly onto his back. He grunted, his hat falling behind her. He hit his head, groaning softly, shaking to clear his temporarily blurred vision. He could feel her on his hips, a triumphant look on her face. "Has the game gotten dangerous yet?" she purred, leaning closer, her lips brushing against his ear. His hands found her hips.

"Yes," he breathed.

"Do you want to know what I got you for your birthday?" Ziio whispered, a mischievous smile on her lips. Haytham smirked, fingers tapping her hips.

"Oh, I have a few ideas."

* * *

 **Hello Canon, fuck you. :)**

 **I may go back and add some smut to this later, but for now, I'm happy with it. Slept on it and I'm happy with how this turned out.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **-Nemo**


	28. Heat

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"It's hot folks! Hot, hot, hot; and it doesn't look like this heat will be letting up any time soon. The next few days will be scorc—" Haytham turned the radio off as he pulled into the garage of his apartment building. He didn't need to be told by some habitually lying weatherman what he already knew. Everyone was unhappy with the heat. At least it was cool in the parking garage. He parked his car with a sigh, shutting the machine off. He sat there, holding his car keys in his hand. He ran his thumb along the little leather circle, feeling the beads stitched into it. He smiled, then looked at his blazer and briefcase with a frown. "Fuck," he muttered, grabbed his briefcase and blazer and got out of the car.

He reached his apartment; empty and sweltering. He tossed his blazer onto the back of a chair and set his briefcase in the seat, turned the air conditioning on, setting it to a freezing sixty degrees. He slipped his shoes off and made his way to his bedroom, undoing his tie and shirt, tossing them onto the chair in his bedroom. He closed the blinds in the bedroom to keep the late afternoon sun from pouring in, and stared at the bed. One side neat and made the other side unkempt, the pillow at an angle. Haytham chewed his lip, took his slacks off and tossed them at the hamper in the corner. They flopped into a heap next to the hamper. He took his watch off and set it on the dresser before standing at the foot of his bed in his undershirt, boxers and socks.

Heaving a great big sigh, Haytham leaned forward and fell face first onto his bed, bouncing twice. He groaned, yanked at the hair tie until his hair was free and pushed his locks up until his neck was exposed. He grabbed the pillow on the unkempt side of the bed and buried his face into it. The scent of coconuts filled his nose and a tiny smile graced his lips. He loved the smell of her conditioner.

He didn't know how long he lied there, clutching her pillow, trying to decompress from the absolutely shitty day he had at work. He didn't want to be touched, didn't want to move, didn't want to do a damn thing. Let the world crash and burn around him, he didn't care. He had no more fucks to give.

The bed sagged and he felt a weight on him, hands on his shoulders and a head resting just below the base of his neck. "Hey, when did you get home?" a woman asked.

"Ziio, it's bloody hot," Haytham mumbled into her pillow. She chuckled, light and mirthful. "I mean it, Ziio. I'm bloody hot."

"Of course you are," she said, "I wouldn't be dating you if you weren't."

Haytham sighed, "I should be offended, but I frankly don't have the energy to be offended." Ziio laughed, rubbing her face into his back.

"So how was work?" she asked, pushing up his shirt to his shoulders. He sighed, relaxing as her fingertips trailed lightly over his skin.

"Miserable. My client wants… I'm not even sure he knows what he wants," Haytham mumbled. "I like your conditioner."

"Thanks," Ziio said.

"It smells nice."

"It's coconut, oh there's one, and another," she said, tapping lightly at the freckles on his back. He turned his head to eye her; she wore an old salmon pink t-shirt and booty shorts, her hair was long and loose and she lacked the tribal jewelry she normally wore.

"What are you doing?" he asked, squeezing her pillow.

"Counting your freckles," she replied, running a hand through her black hair. "There's another one, that brings the count to nineteen. It's hard though, since your shirt is in the way."

"I can fix that," he said, and pushed himself up onto his knees, grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He tossed the garment at the hamper. It connected, hung on the edge before falling on top of his slacks.

"You missed," Ziio stated bluntly as Haytham threw up his hands.

"Thank you Captain Obvious," Haytham grumbled.

"Hey," she held up her hands, "just doin' my job." He glared at her, before flopping back onto his stomach. He felt Ziio's weight shift, the bed squeaking, before she settled herself on the small of his back. He shivered when her fingers brushed his hair away from his neck. "One, two, three…"

Haytham sighed, content as she tapped each little mark she found on his back. "Where are we going in this relationship?" he asked.

"Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen… what do you mean where are we going? …eighteen, nineteen, hmm, oh there's twenty," Ziio said.

"You know what I mean, we've been dating for over two years and I want to know do you see a future for us?"

"The past is history, the future is a mystery, but this moment is a gift," Ziio said, "that's why it's called the present."

"Ziio," Haytham whined. She chuckled, leaned forward and kissed his neck.

"Well, what do you want, then?" she asked. He sighed, rolling over. He rested his hands on her hips and stared up at her. "Oh, look! Twenty-one and twenty-two!" she snickered, tapping his nipples.

"Those are my nipples, Ziio," he said, deadpan. She tossed her head back and cackled, he couldn't help but laugh as well, a half-smile appearing on his face.

"Really?"

"Mmhmm." He slid his hands up her shirt, enjoying the feel of her skin. "And as for your question, I want several things."

"Oh, like what?" she asked, lifting her arms as his hands slid further up, with his help she shimmied out of her shirt. He didn't answer at first, smiling as he lazily traced the lace on her bra.

"I like this bra," he said.

"Victoria's Secret," she chimed.

"Ah."

"What do you want?" Ziio asked, leaning forward, until her head was resting on his shoulder and arms on either side of his head. He lacked his fingers together at the small of her back and kissed the top of her head.

"I want Hickey to stop being an ass," he said.

"That'll never happen."

"My mother to stop calling me Hammie."

"Hahaha, she won't and if she does I'll start," Ziio said, pushed herself up so she can look at Haytham's face, her fingers began to play with his hair. "Hammie," she teased, tapping his nose. He playfully tried to bite it. Ziio giggled. "What else?"

"Hmm… I'd like to make partner, and for my father to stop being well… himself."

"The world will be a duller place the day Edward Kenway stops being himself, you know that and I know that," Ziio said, leaning forward and kissing his throat. Haytham sighed, fingers slipping passed the waist band of Ziio's shorts.

"Ziio," he murmured.

"Hmm?"

"What if we got married?" he asked.

"Married?" Ziio sat up at that. "Married."

"Yes, married," Haytham said, propping himself up on his elbows. "Is there something wrong with getting married?"

"No, there's nothing wrong with _other people_ getting married, but…"

"But there's something wrong with _us_ getting married?" Haytham asked. Ziio sighed, rolling off of him and sitting at the foot of the bed. She didn't say anything, plucking at a loose thread. "Ziio."

"Why do you want to get married?" she asked. He frowned, crawling over to her. He sat behind her and pulled her flush against his chest. He interlaced his hands with hers. "People can be in a relationship and have kids and not get married."

"I know," he said, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"So, why do you want to get married?" Ziio asked. "Is it because you're old?"

"I'm thirty, I'm hardly old," Haytham huffed.

"And I'm twenty-four," Ziio said, "I have things I want to do with my life."

"Marriage won't stop you, besides if you want to travel we can travel. I make enough money where we can take trips to Europe or wherever you want to go."

"What if I fall out of love with you?" Ziio asked, turning her head to look at him. He pulled away slightly and stared at her. She felt him tense when she said that and almost regretted even voicing that thought.

"Are you saying you don't love me?" Haytham asked, his voice surprisingly steady; then again he's always been good at remaining calm under pressure. "Because if that's the case we should end this relationship now."

"No, I'm not saying that," Ziio huffed. She ran her hands through her hair. "I'm saying that… what if we get married and then we find out that we don't work?"

"I'm not following you. We've been living together since last year. Surely we'd've noticed if we didn't work."

"I'm Mohawk and you're British."

"Am not. I was born here. My parents are British. They immigrated into the United States before I was born. I've told you that before. Again, I don't see what our ethnicity has to do with getting married. If you want to have a wedding that adheres to your people's customs than fine. We'll have two weddings. One for my family and one for your family."

"What if we have kids and end up getting a divorce? Divorces are messy. Especially ones that involve kids."

"Ziio, I'm not even sure I want kids," Haytham muttered. "Besides, I believe we can work out our problems. If some unforeseen problem comes up, we can work it out. I'm not asking you to become a housewife. You can still work at the restaurant, if you are afraid of losing your independence. We don't have to do everything jointly. If it's the age gap well, my father is several years older than my mother."

"Yes, but…" Ziio was silenced when Haytham kissed her.

"I love you," he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers and stroking her temple with his thumb. "We've been dating for over two years and I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

"Haytham."

"When I try to think of a future without you in it, all I see is misery and gloom. You bring such a brightness to my otherwise dull life that I simply don't want to go back to it."

"What about your job?" Ziio asked.

"What does my job have to do with any of this?" Haytham asked. "Am I really such a bad person that I'm un-marry-able?"

"That's not even a word," Ziio grumbled.

"Shakespeare invented one thousand and seven hundred words."

"You aren't Shakespeare," Ziio counted. "And you're not. It's just that sometimes… you get so caught up in your work that you forget about me. And when you do share about your work… how can you separate a mother or a father from their children? Doesn't it break your heart?"

"Of course it does," Haytham muttered, "but it's not my place to decided such things. I'm simply a servant of the law and my client. Sometimes one parent is ill-fit to be a parent while the other isn't but most of the time the child has to go with the unfit parent because of the law."

"That's not fair! It's not right either!"

"I know," Haytham muttered. "I know." He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. "The law is an amoral bitch; you just have to accept that and move on."

"Why did I have to fall for a divorce lawyer?" Ziio grumbled.

"Because I'm bloody hot?"

"Bastard," Ziio giggled, slapping his shoulder.

"Sorry, but I know my father," Haytham chuckled. Ziio huffed, rolling her eyes but a smile was on her lips. "Will you at least think about getting married. We can just go to the court house and get a marriage license and not have a big ceremony until you want one or whatever," Haytham muttered.

"I'll think about it," Ziio agreed. Haytham smiled and kissed her. He took his time, kissing her deeply and sinfully.

"Good," he muttered against her lips. He smiled, pecked her lips again and slipped off the bed. He yawned with a stretch. "Now, let's get something to eat. I'm hungry."

"That sounds like a good idea. I'm in the mood for Chinese."

"Really? You aren't going to cook something?"

"Nope. It's too hot to heat up this place. Plus, it's my day off, I don't wanna cook on my day off."

"Fair enough," Haytham agreed, pulling on a pair of lounge pants. "Any particular place in mind?"

"The Jade Phoenix," Ziio said, "they have good noodles. Oh by the way, Haytham," Ziio said.

"Hmm?" he tugged a shirt over his head.

"I'm pregnant."

* * *

 **:3  
Yes, wail in frustration! Rage in frustration! Revel in it! Muwhahahahaaha! **

**I wanted this to be cute and fluffy but these two like to throw in angst. Le sigh. So, you got some angst. Yes, Haytham is in his boxers, they're maroon by the way with a grey waistband and are made by Fruit-of-the-Loom.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **-Nemo**


	29. A Father's Wish

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **4-4-2016**

* * *

All was quiet topside, the deckhand to my left calmly kept the time with the hourglass, he would glance at me from time to time, but we preserved the silence between us. I had to sail the _Aquila_ farther from the coast than I would have liked due to potential altercations with the British, it was a boon though, since we could sail faster and with last possible chance for collusion.

I shift my weight from foot to foot and roll my shoulders, trying to limber up my stiffening muscles. Mr. Falkner would not relieve me until midnight. I sighed, weary already of my watch and wanting my bed in my cabin. I twist my grip on a spoke on the helm, smiling a little, enjoying the feeling of the worn wood beneath my palm. I glance up at the stars, remembering a story my mother told me about how they were formed. I find the North Star and adjust the _Aquila_ 's course just slightly. I would be home in a few more weeks, and with Church dead I would turn my attention into hunting down Charles Lee. I grind my teeth at the mere thought of that man.

I hear footsteps ascend to the quarterdeck. "Evening, Connor," says a voice that I was beginning to become comfortable with. My father stands beside me, hands clasp behind his back and cloak fluttering in the wind. His grey hair is tied back at his nape and the wind attempts to whip it around him. He does not spare me a glace, instead he watches the sails billow in the wind.

"Good evening, Father," I reply with stiff politeness, I am still vexed that he would usurp the command of my ship from me in such a fashion. I glance at him briefly before fixing my gaze upon the dark horizon. We don't speak for several minutes, until I could no longer bear the uncomfortable silence. "What do…" I stop, take a deep breath before saying, "What brings you topside, Father?"

"Oh," Haytham says, seemingly startled that I spoke to him. He licks his lips and gives a little shrug, before returning his gaze to the rigging. "Nothing much. Just thought I stretch my legs before heading off to bed."

"I see," I mutter, shifting my weight again. The silence presses between us, like a suffocating blanket. A part of me wants to ask my father various questions, yet another part, the Assassin part, is guarded and wary of engaging in any conversation with the Grand Master of the Templars.

"You know, my father… your grandfather, was a sailor," Haytham says in way of breaking the silence. "A pirate actually."

"I know," I tell him. "I looked into your family during my training."

"You did?" Haytham asks, looking at me with surprise on his face. "Why?"

"Achilles said it is wise to know your enemy. The warriors of my tribe have told me the same thing. It was not… easy tracking down information about you," I say, looking at him, "you are an enigma."

"I work hard to keep it that way," Haytham says, shoulders stiffening slightly. We lapse into another uncomfortable silence and I find myself wishing my father would leave. I have nothing to say to him and he seemingly has no interesting in me insofar as what ends my abilities can give him. I have dreamt of meeting him since I was a child, ever since my mother told me the name of my father. It is… discouraging to say the least. The man I imagined Haytham Kenway to be is not the man he is.

My father walks over to the railing, places his hands on the worn wood and leans over and watches the waves. I have the sudden urge to knock him overboard, get killing him over and done with, but I stay my hand. He could aid me in my hunt for Lee… if he can be persuaded to give up the man. "Your grandfather's name was Edward Kenway," Haytham says, straightening and returning to his spot by my side. "He use to take me to the theater in London, when I was a boy. I barely remember it."

"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, wary about his motives behind this seemingly innocent conversation.

"We've had so little time to talk, as father and son," Haytham says, "I thought you'd like to get to know your paternal side."

"I do not have any questions for you," I say, defensive. In truth there are many things I want to ask him: does he have any siblings? Did he marry an English woman after he left my mother? What did he do in Boston when not engaging in Templar activities? So many questions, but I do not want to be lulled into a false sense of security only for him to betray me.

"Pity," my father says. "Well then, tell me about yourself Connor? You are my son after all," he looks at me, "I would like to get to know my child."

I sigh through my nose, remaining silent for several long moments. I do not want to have this conversation with him, yet paradoxically I do want it. My father confuses me and blurs the lines between Assassin and Templar. He claims both sides fight for the same goal, but is that true or merely a ploy to assuage my fears and work with him. I look at him and say, "what do you want to know?"

He shrugs, causally before blowing on his hands, the wind taking on a sudden chill. "Who you are, what's your favorite color, the foods you like, hobbies. Is there a special woman in your life? I have a fair grasp on your age, all things considering," he says with a small chuckle, "I don't know your actual birth date though and…" he pauses as if unsure to continue. "I'd like to know, you're my son after all." He finishes, his voice so soft that the wind nearly takes his words away. I hear them nonetheless and my breath hitches. I grab onto the first feeling that comes to me. Anger.

"Why does any of this matter to you?" I snap, tightening my grip on the helm, "you were not there for us! You were not there for _me!_ " If only he knew the full extent of my anger and hurt towards him. There are days when I wonder if he had been there if he could have pulled my mother free of the burning longhouse, if she would still be alive if only he had bothered to be there. I fix him with a furious glower and he actually had the decency to look almost… _ashamed_ of his inactions.

"I would've been, Connor, had I known," he whispers again, "had your mother let me be there."

"My mother did what she felt was right!" I snap. "You betrayed her! Betrayed her trust!"

"I know," he says, "though at the time I truly didn't know Braddock hadn't met his end that day. I knew I didn't deliver a killing blow, but it was a mortal wound and I assumed he'd died before sunset. It was my folly for not following up. Charles' news that Braddock died four days after the ambush came as a shock to both of us, Connor."

"You still used her," I state, though my anger was beginning to diminish. "To gain access to the sacred cave and—"

"I know!" Haytham interrupts. "I know," he says again more evenly. "I…" he does not finish and I wonder if he regrets treating my mother in such a fashion. "My point being, Connor is that I would've stepped up if she had only told me. I had my suspicions but I was not about to pry into womanly matters. I would not have allowed the Kenway name to be tarnished with a bastard."

"Is that all I am to you? Your half-breed bastard? A stain that must be scrubbed out?" I growled, looking at him. He falters, his cool façade crumbling slightly.

"No," he says with vehemence. "You are my son, Connor, and… if you want you can use the Kenway name," he says. "It belongs to you as well as me, after all."

"In truth, I never thought much about the fact that I was a bastard," I say, "among my people the mother is more important. I was Kaneihtí:io's son, nothing else mattered."

"Enough of this gloomy topic, what is your name?"

"My name?" I look at him confused. He knows my name. I have gone by _Connor_ for so long that I almost forget I have the name my mother gave me.

"I highly doubt your mother named you _Connor_ ," Haytham says. "What did she name you?"

I look at anything but him, I sigh, rub my face with one hand and pinch the bridge of my nose. I notice my father smirking in amusement out of the corner of my eye. "Ratonhnhaké:ton," I say after a moment.

"What?" Haytham asks.

"Ra-doon-ha-ge-doon," I say slowly, stressing each syllable.

"Ray-doon-gay-doon," he says, stumbling over it. He looks at his feet, ashamed that he butchered my name. I felt my lips twitch into a smile. "I'm sorry, Connor, but… I simply cannot say that."

I chuckle. "At least you attempted it. Achilles did not even bother to say it." I will not say it aloud, but the sheer fact my own father attempted the name my mother bestowed upon me means a great deal to me. "It means _Life that is scratched_."

"Haytham means _young eagle_ in Arabic," my father says.

"Arabic?" I look at him curious.

"Yes, the language spoken by the Arab people. They are from a distant land called Arabia," Haytham says. "So, what are your hobbies?"

"Hobbies?" I ask.

"Things you do when you are not… ah, working."

"Oh." I frown, unsure of how to answer such a question. "Beadwork," I say, lifting my elbow slightly, drawing my father's eye to the beading on the sleeves. "I do that sometimes. I help around the Homestead. I am… rather busy most of the time, so I do not have a lot of… time when I am not working."

"Really? Did your mother teach you that?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply, a smile spreading across my face remembering the cold winters beside my mother as she taught me how to stitch beads into leather while telling me stories. "She also taught me how to climb trees."

"She did," Haytham says, his voice sounding wistfully melancholic. "I… I thought she might have; given the way you climb. I thought she was the most skillful climber I've ever seen."

"Did… did you love my mother?" I ask.

My father sighs, pacing a bit before turning to face me. "Yes," he says after a moment. "I did." We don't speak for a moment, allowing the conversation to settle. "Did… Did she ever speak of me?" my father asks.

"When I asked. She… _Ista_ … was very… I think she missed you. She told me once that she loved you, and that was why it hurt to talk about you."

"Connor…" my father begins but he never finishes, instead, he looks out at the sea. I wonder if he's thinking about my mother. I wanted to ask him if he still had feelings for my mother but I held my tongue. I believe he did. He did ask after her health. "When's your birth date?" he finally asks.

"April 4th," I say, comfortable with sharing the information with him. He nods and rocks on his feet. I watch the deckhand turn the hour glass.

"One hour before the change of the watch!" he shouts. I sigh, it was eleven o'clock. I had one hour left before I can go to bed.

"Well, I think I'll head off to bed," Haytham says. He pats my shoulder, and I allow it. "Good night, Connor," he says and heads down to the main deck.

"Good night… Father," I whisper to myself, shifting the _Aquila_ 's course slightly. The familiar creak of the ship fills the silence left by my father's absence.

"Oh, Connor," my father calls out, halfway down the steps. I look at him, signaling that I'm listening. "Happy birthday, son."

* * *

 **Happy birthday Ratonhnhaké:ton! April 4** **th** **, 1756.**

 **I wanted to write this fic, not necessarily for a birthday fic, but just for general. I normally don't write in 1** **st** **POV, but for some reason writing in Connor's 1** **st** **POV felt right. It was challenging because I can't use contractions with Connor so everything felt longer, but it captures Connor's voice very well.**

 **Save an author; leave a review! It's Connor's birthday!**

 **-Nemo**

 **PS: Special thanks to MohawkWoman for some of the dialogue.**


	30. The Weakness of Fireflies

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

She takes my hand in hers and leads me down a nearly invisible deer trail. Dusk is settling in and I try to come up with an excuse to go back to the inn for the night, but none come. I let out a resign sigh and ask, "Ziio, where are you taking me?"

The maddening woman simply shoots a mischievous grin over her shoulder, giving my fingers a reassuring squeeze, but doesn't tell me anything. I huff, resigning to the fact that I'll find out her gambit when she damn well wants me too.

Normally this type of secrecy peeves me, but with Ziio, like so many other things involving her, I make an exception. She is truly an enigma to me. I sensed a spiritual kinship with her, another lost and lonely soul, abused by the heartless world's unnecessary cruelties. The fact that she demanded I free her from her chains the day we killed Salis had galled me. Not the request for freedom itself but her tone as if she was in a position to order me about. I kept my head naturally, calmly explaining to her why such an action was improbable at the moment, but promising to do so as soon as we passed the check point.

Let it be known that I, Haytham Kenway, am a man of his word; I freed her shortly after we passed the checkpoint and she left without so much as a thank you or a backwards glance. Yet her smile, as I watched her lead her newly liberated people to freedom, made up for the lack of social niceties and spoke volumes. I couldn't help but be utterly captivated by her in that moment, returning her smile.

As one would expect, I stumble over the unfamiliar terrain. "Mind your step, Haytham," Ziio says, letting go of my hand and dexterously side-stepping as I struggle to regain my balance for a moment. The forest had darkened considerably in the brief minutes since we began this absurd journey through the woods. I tug at my waistcoat upon regaining my footing and adjust my tricorn on my head.

"Will you please enlighten me on just exactly where we are going, Ziio?" I ask, trying to keep the annoyed tone from my voice. By the quirk of her lips, I failed and she continues to stubbornly refuse to answer my question. She takes my hand and leads me further into the trees, going slower this time, for my own benefit and for hers; since by this point I have difficulty seeing my own hand before my face.

Ziio is quick and fleet of foot as a fawn; all the hidden hazards of this trail known to her, and she guides me surefootedly along. I can't help but recall our second meeting. She had weighed heavily on my mind after I had rescued her and her people from Salis. Partly, because I had hoped she or one of her fellows would agree to aid us in our search for the Precursor sight, as a gesture of good will for our good turn towards them.

The other part… I'll admit were for entirely selfish reasons. I desired to be in her presence again. It is an indescribable feeling that one gets when standing in the presence of a kindred soul, nay, a soul that utterly completes one's own soul.

Needless to say, when Charles and I finally tracked her down I was uncharacteristically nervous. I wouldn't go so far as to say I had butterflies in my stomach or sweaty palms, I keep a level head at all times, but I did feel rather off center as if one simple misstep would send me over the edge into an abyss.

I had sent Charles away, fearing that encountering two men may frighten her more, and continued to approach her on my own. Ziio fled, naturally. I gave chase as expected, begging her to stop, shouting at her that I meant her no harm and only wished to talk. I had finally caught up to her, huffing and puffing and wading through thigh deep snow drifts, speaking slowly as if she were a simpleton.

I'll never forget the annoyed look of utter contempt for me on her face in that moment. I don't think the fact that I bastardized her name with my pathetic attempt at saying it helped relations much either. Yet, I am nothing but tenacious, if I was anything else. I had eventually earned her trust.

At least I hope so, considering we are gallivanting through the forest at night. She could easily push me off a cliff and I could break my neck and no one would be the wiser. I do hope Charles and the others don't fret about me. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Charles has now been inducted into our Order and we had celebrated Braddock's downfall.

There is no logical reason for me to continue fraternizing with Ziio.

Ziio came to a sudden halt, and I would have knocked her over if she hadn't braced her hand against my chest. I felt a… _tingling_ upon her touch, my heart quickening and I felt the tips of my ears grow hot. No other woman I had an extended relationship with has ever caused me to feel so… _weak._ "Ziio," I whisper, looking into her beautiful amber eyes. I'm within danger of drowning. I realize this, but… I've learned to be helpless around this woman.

"We're here," she says, her voice soft. The moon has risen high enough to shine through the trees, casting the world in a pale silver light. I look around, realizing that we are in a crop of trees. I take a moment to survey my surroundings, noting the fastest possible routes of escape, the cover for hiding and potential attacks. I nearly jump out of my skin when Ziio slips her hand into mind. "You're nervous?" she asks, arching a brow.

"No," I reply, my thumb stroking the back her hand. "Just… getting a lay of the land." I flash her a tiny smile. The air is warm, yet cool, slightly humid and the smell of mulch and leaf decay fills my nose. I can hear the drone of cicadas, the croak of frogs and the chirp of crickets. There is even a soft sigh of a breeze, rustling through the trees, in the distant a wolf howls.

The feeling of being alive floods me and the uncontrollable desire to move over comes me. I meander around the grove, taking things in. "What is this place?" I ask, looking at Ziio. She simply shrugs.

"Nowhere special," she says, glancing up at the stars. I see the brilliant river of stars that divides the sky.

"Fascinating," I mutter, more to myself. I rarely have a moment to stop and appreciate the natural beauty of our world. "Thank you, Ziio," I say, "for showing me this."

"Just watch," Ziio says. I wonder what she is expecting to happen when suddenly a flash of yellow-green light erupts all over the grove. I gasp, surprised at their numbers. I've seen fireflies before in the countryside of Europe, but never before have I witnessed such a vast number of them.

"Beautiful," I breathe, looking about. I turn to look at her and see the contentment on her face. "Ziio," I whisper. She looks at me, a question in her voice and complete trust in her eyes. I swallow, my throat tightening. I realize then that I love her and she would ultimately be my destruction. A stronger man than I, upon understanding the implications of this realization, would have severed all ties with her.

I am not a strong man.

I cup her cheek, caressing her cheekbone with my thumb and she leans into my touch, a smile on her lips. She takes one small step towards me, closing the gap between us, deepening the intimacy of the moment. I should run, I should leave, make an excuse as to why we can no longer see each other.

I am the Grand Master of the Colonial Templars. I have duties and responsibilities to the other Templars in these colonies. I even have a duty to the Order's philosophy. We Templars strive for order, direction and purpose, and above all truth. In a way, we seek enlightenment and freedom from earthly pleasures, they are fleeting, but truth… truth is eternal.

As if sensing each other's intentions, as I dip my head towards her, Ziio stands on her toes and…

I kiss her.

Passionately.

Sinfully.

I am a Templar, but I'm also a man. And men are weak pathetic creatures, driven by our baser desires. Ziio is my greatest weakness, my greatest strength and my greatest treasure.

She is simply my _sin_.

* * *

 **So… qyguex and I were talking about HayZiio last night and somehow the topic of fireflies comes up. Originally, I wanted to do a Connorline thing with this topic, but as I was driving to school I had this idea that Haytham never seen fireflies before, (fireflies are native to Europe by the way).**

 **Once again, I tried thinking of this story in third person, but the first line came to me purely in Haytham's voice and I** _ **knew**_ **I had to do it in 1** **st** **POV.**

 **I like this overall. Please leave me your thoughts and comments in a review.**

 **Also, a note to those that review. I speak English. I read English. I write in English. Please, please,** _ **please**_ **leave your reviews in English. If English is not, you first language please put it into Google Translator and then post it. The majority of the time I can puzzle out the translator's horrid grammar skills and get what you mean. This is a lot easier for me since if I translate your language into English and the grammar is screwy than I'll be left wondering what the hell you meant.**

 **If you wish to translate one of my fics into another language, please contact me about it.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo**


	31. Encounters at Chronos' Maze

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Note: The stuff in italics is Ziio. She's in a metaphysical representation of her psyche.**

* * *

 _I roam life after life, age after age, forever again… Our love in different shapes, life after life, age after age… There is something in your eyes… Recall, somewhere in time…_ _—_ _Diabulus in Musica_

* * *

 _He stared at her, that heartbroken look in his eyes. "What do you mean you don't remember me? You have to remember me! We… we… we were in love! I… you left before we could get married! Please, tell me you remember me!" he asks… no begs. He always begs me, but I cannot recall his name, yet his face is vivid… so very vivid… and oddly familiar. "Please… what is my name?" he asks. I look into his eyes._

 _"I don't know…" I breathe._

She wakes up at seven in the morning every day to watch the birds and the clinic's cat sits with her on the bed. She then braids her hair in two neat plates, and when she is done she turns and smiles at him. "Morning, Ista," Connor says, holding a tray of covered food. He brings it from home every day, since she always complains about how the clinic's food tastes horrid.

"You didn't have to come Jim," she says, a smile on her wrinkly old face. "But thank you for doing so."

Connor sighs, he hates it when his mother doesn't remember him, but as the doctors explained it, her mind is like Swiss cheese, so full of holes and her memories are lost to her forever. The nurses encouraged him to go along with the fantasies his mother believes herself to be in, since it'll help her, but she is gone. Trapped forever in her own mind. "I had to," Connor says, walking up to his mother. "I hated seeing you so sad."

"I'm not sad, Jim!" Ziio snaps, a pout tugging at her lips. "Why do you think I'm sad?"

"I see it in your eyes, you miss him," Connor explains. "Don't you? Your son's father."

"Son? I don't have a son, Jim!" Ziio says, scooting away from Connor. "I don't know what you're talking about! I'm not sad, I'm…" she stops, a wild look in her eyes as she stares at Connor. "Ratonhnhaké:ton?" she asks, suddenly lucid.

"Ista," he whispers, a hopeful smile curving his lips. "Good morning."

"Morning? It's already morning… oh my." Ziio touches her lips, staring out the window. "How's Aveline? The kids?"

"She's good. She came back from Paris three days ago," Connor says. "She's going back in August. Edwin is coming back for summer vacation, and Zéphyrine can't wait to graduate. She's accepted into Harvard."

"August," Ziio says. "I've always loved August."

"I know, you've told me."

"I was going to get married in August," Ziio says, looking wistfully out the window. The cat chattered as a bold little bird hopped to close to the window; its whiskers and ears forward and tail tip twitching. It shuffled on its forepaws, eyes glued to the bird.

Connor sets the tray down on the table near his mother's bed, and sits next to her. He takes her gnarled liver-spotted hand in both of hiss. "Ista, I know… I know I've never really asked you much about my father, but… Zéphyrine would like her grandfather at her graduation. I know you two had your reasons for parting… but… the sins of the mother are not the sins of the son. The last time I saw him I was three. Please Ista, tell me where is Haytham Kenway."

 _"Remember when Connor was two," the man says, a whimsical smile on his face. "He wandered too near the pond and fell in. I thought my heart would stop and before I could react you were already in the water, pulling him out. He was terribly shook up."_

 _"He was," I agree. I remember that. It was one of the few memories the worms had yet to devour. I had been so afraid I'd lose my son; I didn't even think about anything else other than getting to him before he drowned. "He…" I can't remember any more if he learned to swim or not. I try to, desperately. This man is expecting to hear if my son learned to swim or not, because… why would he care I cannot remember._

 _"You don't remember do you?" the man asks, a sad look in his eyes. "It feels like a life time doesn't it?" he looks around at the metaphysical cave we're in, watching the ever encroaching ocean and the fog of forgetfulness that is on the distant horizon. Within the fog is where the memory-worms live, and they devour a little bit of my memories each day. Soon, this man will be gone. I've already lost his name, yet I continue to feel this tug on me… as if he is extremely important._

 _"I wish I could remember," I whisper. I can't look into his eyes. "I truly do."_

 _He takes my hand and kisses it. "I know," he whispers. "And I believe you will. Please, you must remember at least my name."_

 _"No… it feels like a lifetime since I recalled it."_

Connor didn't expect his mother to remember the name of his father. She proved as much when she stared at him blankly for several minutes and started calling him by her father's name. He stayed, helping her eat, before taking the tray of half-eaten food away, telling the nurse he'll be back tomorrow. He grabbed one of his daughter's books on law, flipped to the back and found the image of the author. He entered the author's website into his computer the next day.

The man is retired. He was once a lawyer. He wrote several books on law and philosophy of law.

He has dual citizenship with both the United Kingdom and the United States.

He currently lives in Queen Anne's Square, London.

"Whatcha doing?" Aveline asks, causing Connor to jump. She giggles and pecks his lips. "London, eh? Who or what is in London?"

"My father," Connor grumbles, closing the window. "When did you get back?"

"Few minutes ago, and your father? Did your mother finally remember him?" Aveline asks, pulling Connor's chair away from the desk. She plops herself neatly into his lap.

"No… I… Zéphyrine wants him at her graduation," Connor whispers, resting his head on her shoulder. "I hate visiting my mother… seeing her like this. She was so… vibrant. So full of passion and life and now… she's just a husk."

"Shh," Aveline coos, running her fingers through his hair. "I know it's hard, but you must… she needs you now, Connor."

"C-Can you and Zéffie visit her?" Connor whispers, looking up into his wife's green eyes. "Please?"

"You're going to London." Aveline says, staring at him.

"I have to," Connor protests. "He's my father and—"

"Walked out on you and your mother when you were three!" Aveline points out. Connor huffs, looking away. "Or have you forgotten?"

He never forgot that day. Most kids remember their parents screaming, shouting, threatening to kill one another. Not him. He remembers his mother snarling in her rage and his father says _very well_. His father spotted him on the stares and told him to go to bed, putting a hand on his head in a loving gesture before continuing to climb the stairs and into his bedroom. Connor remembers the sad smile on his father's face. The next day his father was gone. "You know I haven't," Connor mutters. "But I have to find him! Please! I think… I think my mother regrets what happened between them."

Aveline heaves a great sigh, cups his face and kisses him sensual. "Oh, _mon pauvre amour_ , _mon coeur pleure pour vous_." She kisses him again, shorter this time, "of course you can go. I won't stop you. Zéffie and I will check in on your mother," Aveline whispers and rests her head on his shoulder. "Just promise me, Connor… don't let your parents' burdens destroy you."

"I…" he licks his lips, "I'll try not."

 _I don't remember what he's talking about, but I know he's talking about something. "You know… I always knew you didn't do anything wrong," he whispers. I tilt my head, curious. "That day… with you and William. I knew he kissed you… and that you were frozen in well, shock."_

 _"I…" I stop. I don't really remember this. It's a half-remembered mostly forgotten memory. William… I remember him being a mutual friend with my companion. William spoke Mohawk, like I do. He did something… something that my body remembers but my mind does not._

 _"We should've gone to couple's therapy," the man says, his slate colored eyes sad. "Maybe things would've been different."_

 _Different… I wonder if that would have been true. Maybe we were destined to be apart forever. I run my hand through my hair. "Maybe," I say, not really understanding why. The man takes my hand and once again, my body remembers this touch. Callused hands from years wielding a sword, he mentioned he wanted to go to the Olympics for fencing; yet those hands were so gentle. The gentlest hands that had ever held me. He leans in close, his lips brushing my cheek._

 _He whispers into my ear, "Why Ziio? Why don't you remember me?"_

Connor gets off the plane in London. He scans the crowd, looking for an obnoxious looking man-child. He spots Jacob Frye amongst the crowd, holding a sign that says _Welcome to London Ray-doon-hay-gay-doon!_ Connor sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Really Jacob, really?" Connor asks. "I've told you how to spell my first name before."

"Connor!" Jacob cries, a broad smile spreading across his face. Connor embraces his friend. "It's lovely to see you again. Been years, since college."

"Yeah. At least in the flesh. I'm always kicking your ass on Duty's Call," Connor points out. Jacob chuckles.

"So, what brings you to merry ol' London?" Jacob asks, as he hefts Connor's bag. "I doubt you came to see me."

"Unfortunately," Connor sighs, "how's your sister?"

"Of traipsing the rainforests of India with Greenie, looking for rare and exotic plants. Da's bloody proud of her though," Jacob says with a little shrug, "then again, Da always had a thing for plants."

"Well good for her," Connor says, as they get into Jacob's beat up looking red car. "I'll never get use to the passenger side being on the wrong side of the car."

" _Wrong side_? Whatcha talkin' about mate? You Yanks have the door on the passenger side on the bloody wrong side," Jacob snorts, getting into his car and starting the engine. "So, we're going back to my flat?"

"Actually, I'd like to stop by this address first."

"Queen Anne's Square," Jacob mutters, arching a brow. "Who do you know that bloody lives there?"

"My father."

 _I struggle to recall his name. I have forgotten most of the names of the men in my life. Save for a few that have truly impacted me. This man, the shade that is always with me, telling me of memories that I should be looking back on fondly… his name I cannot remember. He is with my today, he is always with me, but whenever he speaks all I hear is static. He must be telling memories that I know longer remember._

 _I wonder through this maze, looking at the remaining memories. The birth of my son, his fifth birthday. His first date. When he brought his girlfriend Aveline over. My mother and my siblings, my father. Memories of my husband should be there, but I have no husband. There was a man. The father of my son, but his name I cannot recall. "Ziio," the shade says. I turn to stare at him. Each passing day he grows darker and darker. I want to rage, to scream, to weep in frustration that I cannot remember his name. "Time's running out Ziio. You must remember, surely you must remember."_

 _"I can't! I can't! I can't! No matter how hard I try I can't remember who you are!"_

 _"Then try… please hurry," the shade breathes, looking over his shoulder. The memory-worms are devouring yet another part of my mind. This maze of forgotten memories is growing weaker and weaker and with each passing day I will lose myself in the confines of my very mind. I look at the shade, fear in my eyes._

 _"Please… help me… I'm scared," I whisper. My shade holds me tight and once more I have the vague sense that I know him._

"Whoa," Jacob mutters, staring at the house. "Your family's wealthy. Your great-granddaddy a baronet or somethin'?"

Connor snorts. "Hardly. Grandfather was a savvy businessman, he climbed his way to the top."

"I thought you said your mum never speaks of your dad?"

"She doesn't," Connor replies as he climbs the stairs. "Google can be surprisingly helpful in tracking down information on my father's family. Plus, he wrote several books and my daughter owns almost all of them." Connor knocks on the fine oak door. There is no answer. "So, what have you been up to Jacob?"

"Building engineering marvels for the Queen," Jacob says with a grin. "Makes good pay though the hours are hell, but money is money, so I can't complain."

Connor nods and knocks again. A flicker of movement in one of the windows catches his eyes, he thought he saw an elderly man peer at him from the curtains but he couldn't be sure. "Any one special?"

"Nope," Jacob says, "I'm enjoying the life of a bachelor."

"Really not even a guy? I mean you kissed me—OW!" Connor yelps as Jacob steps on his foot. "Jacob!"

"I told you," Jacob hisses, "never to mention that _incident_." Connor glares at is friend, Jacob huffs and looks away. "Maxwell Roth, okay, and that's all I'm going to say." He doesn't look Connor in the eye but Connor notices the tint of pink in Jacob's cheeks. Connor knocks again and this time a bent old woman peers out at him.

Her face isn't saggy with wrinkles, though she has deep crow's feet at the corners of her eyes and the edges of her mouth. Eyes blue as the sky that hold the sharpness of her wit behind them. Her hair, once a brilliant golden blond, now moon silver, is pulled back into a tight headmistress's bun. She wears a plain dress, and the pommel of her cane is shaped like an eagle. "What do you want?" she hisses. "My brother and I don't abide by hooligans knocking on our door and leaving bags of burning shit on our doorstep! Also, we aren't interested in anything you're selling."

"Uhm… hello, ma'am," Connor says, regaining his composure, "I'm Connor Kenway… Haytham Kenway's son. Does… Does he still live here?"

The woman reacts as if she had seen a ghost, her old blue eyes growing wide as she stares at Connor, before turning her head into the house and bellowing like a sailor. "Haytham! Haytham, get down here! Some lout here claims to be your son! _Haytham!_ " the woman looks at Jacob. "And who are you? This chap's bugger?"

Jacob and Connor flush. " _No!_ "

"Seriously, what the hell, lady," Jacob grumbles, while Connor mutters, "I'm married…"

"Pish-posh, that never stopped anyone from bonkin' if they wanted to," the woman says. "Haytham! Hurry up and get down here otherwise I'm going to invite them in! I'm tired of standing in this bloody doorway!"

"Good grief Jenny, just send them on their way!" a man's voice says, and the owner of the voice soon appears. Connor stare at the man with iron grey hair and slate colored eyes. He has a scar on his chin and one on his cheek and by his brow, yet he's still handsome, in the same fashion of perfectly aged wine.

"About time you showed up and be a proper host, brother mine," the woman, Jenny chides. Haytham tugs indignantly at his sweater vest. "Ta-ta you two," Jenny says, and shuffles off into the house.

"Now," Haytham looks at the two young men on his doorstep. "What can I possible do for you?"

"Hello, are you Mr. Haytham Kenway?" Connor asks.

"That depends on who you are," the man says. Connor frowns.

"I'm Ratonhnhaké:ton Connor Kenway," Connor says, "your son." The man visibly freezes, staring at Connor before hastily closing the door.

"I'm sorry but you got the wrong address. I'm Kenneth Conway," Haytham stammers, trying to close the door, but Connor shoves his foot in between the door and frame.

"That woman, Jenny, called you Haytham. My father's name is Haytham, he lives on this address and— Jacob! Let go of me!"

"Sorry to bother you," Jacob says, putting on his most suave smile, "but my mate here's an American. You know how they are."

"Right," Haytham mutters tersely, his door closing with a soft click. Connor pulls away and looks at Jacob.

"Why did you do that? I could have gotten him to acknowledge me as his son!" Connor seethes.

"He'd've called the cops on us," Jacob points out, "c'mon, let's get back to my flat and we can grab a bite to eat."

* * *

Connor doesn't return to his father's house for a few days, instead taking this time to tour London with Jacob, who may or may not be the best tour guide. Connor returns the four day, and is surprised when Haytham answers the door. "I thought you would've left by now."

"I'm tenacious," Connor replies, a smirk quirking upon his lips. "My mother says I get that from you."

"Bollocks," Haytham snorts, "you get that from her side of the family." Connor chuckles as his father sighs. "Well, what do you want?" Haytham asks. He frowns when Connor hands him a picture.

"I was three when that was taken," Connor explains, watching his father's reaction. Haytham covers his mouth with a hand. "We went to Disney World. Three months before you left me and my mother. I still remember how you looked at me, with such sadness."

"Son…" Haytham sighs, handing the picture back to Connor. "I knew it was you the first day."

"Then why did you… try to avoid talking to me?" Connor asks, tucking the picture back into his wallet. Haytham steals a glance, noticing a family photo, he recognizes his son, but not the other people.

"Would you… take a walk with an old man?" Haytham asks. Connor glances at his watch before nodding. "Good, I'll fetch my coat."

They walk a few blocks to a nearby church and entire the graveyard the building stands sentinel over. Connor follows his father, watching him as Haytham leads the way through the graveyard. His father's hands have become gnarled and knobby like his mother's, blue veins bulging beneath paper-thin flesh. Connor stops besides his father, when Haytham stops at a tombstone. Connor sees it, reading the name of his grandfather, the dates of birth and death and the heartfelt inscription below the dates. "Edward James Kenway," Haytham whispers, "loving father and husband. Fair winds and following seas."

"When did he die?" Connor asks.

"Ten years after I moved back to London," Haytham sighs, "he wanted to see you again. I thought… I thought about calling your mother and asking… if you and her could… come out but…"

"Why didn't you?" Connor presses. "I never met him."

"You did," Haytham says, "once. We came back for Christmas and New Year's when you were two. Actually, we came for my birthday as well, but that's neither here nor there. My parents adored you."

"I don't remember…" Connor breathes.

"I don't expect you too," Haytham sighs. "So, the woman, the boy and the girl? Who are they?"

"The woman is my wife, Aveline," Connor says, "she's CEO of De Grandpré Enterprise. The boy is my son, Edwin. He's going to college now, up in New York and the girl is my daughter, Zéphyrine, she's graduating high school in June."

"I have grandchildren… a daughter-in-law?" Haytham whispers. Connor nods. "Why didn't I hear about this?"

"I wrote a letter to you, before I got married. I couldn't exactly fly to London to look for you. I didn't have my own veterinary practice yet and Aveline wasn't CEO. You never got the letter, at least I assumed you didn't. I got a generic thank you from your publisher."

"Damn him, I told Charles I want to read my fan mail. It's not like I get mountains of it like Rowling," Haytham mutters. "Tell me about them."

"Aveline is sharp as a whip, as a good sense of humor and a strong sense of justice. She's a loving mother and wife. She's my best friend. We had to do a project together for some sociology class we both needed for our degrees. She's half black and half white."

"And my grandchildren?" Haytham presses.

"Edwin is sharp. He loves his sister, but he's very black and white, has a quick temper. He's going to school for criminal psychology. Wants to be a profiler for the FBI." Connor sighs, thinking of his son. "Zéphyrine… she admires you. I told her about you and she did an internet search for you, and started reading your books. Since then she's wanted to be a lawyer. Brilliant, girl. She's graduating with top honors, and did a running start program and already has her AA."

"Amazing… a woman after my own heart and she happens to be my granddaughter," Haytham chuckles. "You must be extremely proud."

"I am."

"And you? What have you been doing?"

"Living. I was a vet," Connor says, "I had to uuh… quit when my mother got sick. I'll reopen my practice once… do you know why I'm here?"

"Not really," Haytham admits.

"My mother has Alzheimer's; the doctors say she's rapidly getting worse. I would like her to see you before she loses what shreds of sanity she has left," Connor sighs, "she doesn't remember you."

"So… she doesn't remember why I left?" Haytham asks.

"If that's all you're worried about then forget it!" Connor snaps. "My mother is dying and all you can think about is yourself. You really are a selfish bastard." Connor turns away, he manages to get several feet away before Haytham calls out.

"You're right." Connor stops, turning to stare at the old man, clutching his dead father's tombstone. "You're right, son. I am selfish. I've been selfish for far too long. My pride and… my shame have prevented me from contacting your mother… prevented me from repairing our relationship. I knew… it wasn't her fault. William was the one that kissed her, she was frozen with shock," Haytham sighs, rubbing at his eyes. Connor belatedly realizes that his father is crying. "In my outrage I… I refused to listen to her side. I tore our family apart and it's been broken far too long." Haytham holds Connor's gaze. "I don't ask for your forgiveness, because I don't expect it, but I will say this: I'm sorry Connor, that you are the son of a coward."

 _The waters of this ocean laps at my feet. I stare at it, my reflection slowly fading. Bit by bit I lose myself to the ravenous maws of this sickness. The memory-worms are ruthless in their quest to devour my memories. My shade is nearly gone now, a transparent grey, and his voice is soft and distant. "Please, Ziio… you must remember me!" he begs, he can no longer hold me and I rage at the injustice of it all. I should know who he is, remember all those things associated with him._

 _I am unable to. It feels like a life time ago since I recalled his name. "I told you, I don't remember! I can't remember! The memory is gone!"_

 _"If the memory of me is gone, then I would've vanished long ago," the shade replies. "I am still here, but they are eating me. Slowly and you know it. You can see it, please Ziio, who am I? What is my name, I know you know."_

 _"I don't, I… it hurts," I sob, wanting to hold him, wanting to feel his strong arms around me. "My heart hurts because of this. Why can't I remember your face? Why can't I even remember your name?"_

 _"What is your name?" my shade asks; I stare at him._

 _"Zii_ _—"_

 _"Your real name. The name your mother gave you," my shade hisses, angry. He grabs my shoulders and I feel him again._

 _"Kaneihtí:io," I say, I'll always remember my name. The memory-worms will not devour my name. I won't allow them to strip me fully of my humanity! "My name is Kaneihtí:io."_

 _"Godz-ziio," my shade says. He's becoming solid again, and darkening from that sickening translucent grey, so black. I frown at him._

 _"No, it's Kaneihtí:io," I repeat. He's darkening, the black taking on colors of the man he once was, the man that's still trapped… nameless… deep within my memories._

 _"Gots-ziio," he repeats and I shake my head, as his face becomes more define._

 _"Ziio," I say, since he is hopeless when it comes to my people's tongue._

 _"Diio," he says, a quirk to his lips. I know he's doing that on purpose now. He knows how to say my nickname._

 _"Ziio…"_

"…Haytham," Ziio whispers, see the man before her. A tearful smile spreads across her face. "Haytham is that you?"

"Yes, Ziio, it's me," Haytham whispers, his voice choked by tears. He rubs at his eyes. "I'm sorry, Ziio. I'm truly sorry."

"For what?" Ziio asks, cupping Haytham's face, stroking his cheek with her thumb. Haytham freezes, shocked that Ziio wouldn't recall why he left in the first place.

"She probably doesn't remember, Father," Connor explains softly. "Just go with it. Indulge her."

Haytham nods once and licks his lips. "For not telling you… how much you mean to me."

"Oh that's okay," Ziio says, her voice soft and light, but her grin genuine. "I always knew you loved me, in your own way."

Haytham smiled.

* * *

 **Art trade with qyguex on tumblr! They requested Ziio suffering from amnesia. Thus, this fic. Thanks for MohawkWoman for pointing out the age issues.**

 **Chronos is the Greek God of Time.**

 **I hope you all enjoy it. Yes, Jacob's here.**

 **Save an author; leave a review. ^o^**

 **Nemo**


	32. Ribbons

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

She hated going into Boston. It was loud, crowded and the colonists always looked down upon her in a condescending manner. The ruder ones would mutter _savage_ beneath their breaths as they passed. The smells were of unwashed bodies masked by flowery perfumes assaulted her nose; Ziio wondered how anyone could live without bathing regularly. She glanced at the shops, looking for one that sold ribbons. She tried stopping some women, but they brushed her off, giving her dirty looks. Ziio rolled her eyes, but eventually saw a sign with a ribbon painted on it. She entered.

"Oh," the clerk, a plump woman with blond hair, gasped upon seeing Ziio. "Hello. May. I help you? Are you… lost?"

Ziio felt her brow twitch, hating how the colonists assumed she was dumb as a sack of rocks and didn't know any English. "No," Ziio replied in tight clear English. "I am looking for a ribbon."

"A ribbon?" the woman asked. "What would a sav… a Native woman such as yourself in need of a ribbon?"

"I want a ribbon. I have coin to pay for it," Ziio said, holding up the little leather purse. "Will you be accepting my business or will I have to find another shop?"

"Well," the clerk mused, "coin is coin. What type of ribbon do you want?"

"A ribbon for tying back hair. Sturdy, holds up against the weather and the frontier," Ziio said. "And red."

"Red? Alright, though to be completely honest ma'am, leather would be the best option," the clerk said, pulling out a few boxes with red ribbons.

"Leather snags the hair, it must be ribbon," Ziio said, looking at the ribbons presented before her. She marveled at them, touching the ribbons each in turn and trying to decide the best one. She found it, a bright red ribbon of medium with, soft yet sturdy when she gave a sharp tug. "I'll take this," she said, holding up the ribbon.

"Alright, how long?" the clerk asked. Ziio help up her hands, indicating the desired length, and the clerk cut the ribbon for her. Ziio handed over the coin and accepted her ribbon.

"Thank you," Ziio said, and left the shop.

* * *

Haytham stirred the campfire with a stick, before presenting his hands to the flames. It was warm, but still cool enough for a fire. He wondered where Ziio had gone. "Haytham," Ziio said, startling him.

"Must you sneak up on me?" he hissed, annoyed by the playful smile on her lips. She sat down next to him on the log. "Where were you all day?"

"Boston," Ziio said.

"Boston? Ziio, what in God's name were you doing there?" Haytham asked. Ziio didn't reply, instead she pulled out a red ribbon. "A ribbon?"

"Yes."

"You went to Boston for a ribbon?" Haytham asked, baffled. Ziio looked away, feeling self-conscious about the entire thing. She almost didn't want to give him the ribbon now.

"I got it for you," she said. "You current one is… in bad shape."

"You… for me?" Haytham said.

"Yes." She presented the ribbon to him and he took it from her fingers, a little smile on his lips.

"I'll treasure it," he said before undoing the ribbon in his hair. He retired his hair with the new ribbon, the red bright against his dark hair. He leaned in close and kissed her, "Thank you, Ziio."

* * *

 **Just an idea, cute and fluffy.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**


	33. Don't Scare Me I

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

The wood of the barn was old and grey, a rickety looking structure that could come crashing down at the slightest touch. Yet, it was within that ugly old barn that their target was hiding. "They have amassed barrels of gunpowder in there," Connor said, from his perch in the tree. Aveline was on the branch above him. "Cane surely suspects that we are planning something, so it is unlikely that he will come out."

"Then I'll go in," Aveline said, "I already see a way in. I can slip through it."

"I thought we agreed to eliminate Cane together?" Connor asked, glancing up at her. They have been tracking this Templar through the Tennessee River Valley for weeks now, since he was a threat not only to Louisiana but also the young United States. Connor found Cane an interesting man. Yorick Cane, his mother was Creek and his father American. Connor couldn't help but wonder if he would have turned out like Cane if his own father had raised him.

"We are," Aveline pointed out, "we are just dividing up the work, _oui?_ You will create the distraction, while I kill Cane."

"I do not like this," Connor said. He didn't know why he was being so protective of Aveline. She was a capable assassin, he had seen that time and time again. They worked well together. They could read each other's moves and anticipate each other's actions. He enjoyed her sharp wit and dry humor. She always pushed him to be a better assassin, a better man in general. He treasured her smiles and felt honored that she gave him her trust, knowing that she didn't trust easily.

So why was he so hesitant to let her eliminate Cane?  
Aveline's plan made logical sense. One of them _needed_ to be the distraction, to draw Cane's suspicion away from unseen shadows. Aveline had been in dangerous situations before and had gotten out of them alive. By all rights, he should give her plan his seal of approval. "What if I go?" he said.

"You cannot fit," Aveline pointed out, "Cane's men have made sure not to leave any potential weaknesses in the barn's structure. They forgot that hole up there in the roof. I can wriggle my way in, you, _mon cher_ , will get stuck."

Connor frowned at that, suddenly self-conscious of his broad-shoulders. He looked up at her. "I thought you liked my shoulders?"

" _Oui, je le fias, mias vous obtiendrez toujours coincé_ ," Aveline chortled. Connor snorted, annoyed that Aveline had to tease, and in French no less. "Do not pout, _mon cher_ , it ruins your pretty face."

Connor flushed. "I am not pouting," he grumbled.

"Uh-huh, _vous_ _ê_ _tes trop boudes_ ," Aveline snickered. Connor growled something in Mohawk, annoyed with Aveline's teasing at his expense. "Besides," she said, regaining her seriousness and focusing on the mission at hand. "You are the better fighter between the two of us, I'm sure," she paused bringing the spyglass to her eye, "ten men won't hinder you too much."

Connor bowed his head, pleased at the compliment she gave him. Of course ten men wouldn't hinder him. He fought more men before, he even ran through the Battle of Bunker Hill, nary a scratch on him, in order to eliminate Pitcairn. He supposed that was when the British and the Americans started referring to him as _the White Angel of Death_. He found the nickname somewhat ironically amusing. "Fine," Connor said, "I will create a distraction." He tugged his hood down lower over his eyes. "Just…" he stopped, "just be careful and don't get hurt."

"Your concern is touching, Connor," Aveline replied, "but I won't get hurt."

 _Your cockiness will get you killed,_ a voice in Connor's head hissed. It sounded like his father's. "Just be careful," he stressed again.

"I will," Aveline giggled, "stop worrying, Ratonhnhaké:ton. I'll be fine."

Connor huffed, smiling when she used his birth name. He watched her jump to the next branch, finding the route through the trees to the rickety old barn. He moved out as well, working his way to the edge of the tree line.

* * *

He landed on a sturdy branch, chest rising and falling with each breath. He watched the men, ruffians and riffraff, pretend to be soldiers, walking to and fro as if they were important. Connor snorted, drawing his bow and knocking an arrow against string. He pulled the arrow back, the eagle feather fletching brushing against his cheek, found his target and fired.

The arrow flew straight and true, piercing the man's neck. He tried to shout, but it came out in a gurgle as he fell and died. Connor sheathed his bow and moved to another spot as the men began to realize that there was something amiss. He knew he wouldn't stay undetected for long. He took out four more men with his arrows, before they wised up and began shooting at the trees. Connor sheathed his bow, and waited until two more men edged closer to the tree line, rifles at the ready. He smirked, they never saw their deaths coming as he fell on top of them, hidden blades slicing into their necks. They died, barely muttering a whimper.

The four remaining men spotted him. The game was up, no use bothering to remain hidden now. He drew his pistol, firing at one. The man jerked, arms flying backward as the lead ball struck him in the chest. Connor holstered his pistol, drew his tomahawk and let out a fierce war cry and charged the men.

They men, caught off guard, were at first disorganized, allowing Connor to kill two more in quick succession. After that, they began to attack him in earnest, thrusting their bayonetted rifles out at him. He pulled one down with his tomahawk, thrusting his hidden blade into the man's face, blood spurting out in a red shower. He twisted as another struck at him, noticing out of the corner of his eye, three more men exciting the barn. He cleaved the second man's spine in two with his tomahawk. The man twitched once, then died.

"Oi, there 'e is!" one of the new comers shouted, pointing at Connor. Connor charged at them.

The explosion was sudden and unexpected. It flattened the three men closest to the barn, large splinters of wood raining down on them and sent Connor flying backward a good five feet. He smashed into the ground, grunting and pulling his body into a defensive curl. Luckily none of the broken wood hit him. Two more explosions shuddered through the ancient barn, and the acrid scent of sulfur and charred flesh filled Connor's nose.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the memories of his burning village, his mother trapped within the blaze, her whispered _I love you_ louder than the crackling flames around her.

Aveline… Aveline was in the barn. "No," he whispered as something serpentine and cold settled neatly at the base of his spine. He'd later come to realize it was fear.

Connor pushed himself to his feet and charged at the fire. "Aveline! Aveline!" he bellowed, drawing on his captain's voice. " _Aveline!_ " he screamed, stopping at the blazing barn. He hesitated only a moment before charging in. He coughed against the dark smoke, which stung his eyes. "Aveline!" he called, only to cough against the smoke. A support beam cracked, then came crashing down a moment later. He saw a body on the floor, flames eating it happily. The scent of burning hair made him gag.

He puked.

He couldn't advance, the flames and smoke where too thick and the barn too structurally unsound. Feeling like a coward, he retreated outside, racing for the forest; where he vomited again. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, staring hatefully at the burning barn and feeling an ache in his chest. Another person… another _woman_ he cared about, taken from him by a fire. He slammed his fist against the tree, too frustrated to scream at the injustice of everything.

"Connor?" a hand touched his shoulder lightly. He jumped, ready to kill whomever it was that touched him, only he stopped and stared.

Aveline was standing before him, a few minor burns on her hands, the edges of her clothes signed, a cut on her cheek; she was alive though, no worse for wear. "Are you alright?"

He didn't think. He reacted, wrapping her up in a crushing hug, lifting her up off the ground. He cried, though he will never admit to doing so later; hiding his face in her shoulder and muttering _You're alive, you're alive, thank god you're alive!_ He only set her down when he felt her tap his shoulder, he loosened his embrace but didn't let her go. Connor was surprised she returned the hug. They stayed like that a few more moments before he held her at arm's lengths. "Do not ever scare me like that again!" Connor shouted. "I thought I had lost you!"

Aveline smiled, touched by his concern, but as she stared into Connor's amber eyes realization dawned on her. He loved her and his fear was palpable. Her heart swelled and butterflies danced in her stomach. "I won't," she agreed, a smile on her face.

"Good," Connor said, letting her go. He cleared his throat. "We should… we should leave… before someone finds…" he looked at the burning barn and the dead bodies. "This."

" _Oui_ ," she said, walking away from the scene of their crime. "Cane is dead by the way."

"I know, I saw the body when I went into the barn looking for you."

"I'm touched Connor," Aveline said, "by your concern."

"You are my friend. I… I did not want anything to happen to you," Connor replied, walking by her side.

Aveline chuckled. "Friend you say."

"Yes," he said slowly.

"I feel the same way about you, Connor," Aveline said, smiling at him. Connor's face went wooden and he shifted his gaze to the branches overhead.

"I am afraid I do not understand what you are talking about, Aveline."

Aveline laughed. " _Je ne mens pas, je sais que tu me aimes!_ " With that she leapt into the branches.

"Aveline…" Connor said, before he had to stop and think about the French. His eyes widen. "Aveline, come back here!" he shouted, climbing up into the trees chasing her. "Aveline, come back! Let me explain! Aveline, this is not funny! Aveline, get back here!"

Aveline's laughter echoed through the forest.

* * *

 **Connorline!**

 **Yay!**

 **I… I really like this. Overall. I am so proud of this! This makes me so happy and I'm so pleased!**

 **I imagine that Achilles taught Connor some French, since learning French, Greek and Latin was what upper society did. Part of his blending training. Connor's not great at speaking French, but he can understand the gist of things.**

 **Please leave reviews!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo**


	34. Don't Scare Me II

**Assassin's Creed (b) Ubisoft**

* * *

The heat beneath the cypresses covered the landscape like a thick wet blanket. Connor was already sweating through his clothes; beads of sweat trickled down his face. He didn't understand how Aveline could tolerate such heat. The summers back home were hot and sweltering, but… nothing like this. This… this was suffocating. This was hell. "How can you stand this?" he asked, following her through the branches of the trees.

"How can you stand that _Dieu terrible_ cold!" Aveline shot back. "I thought I would never be warm again!"

"It is not that bad," Connor grumbled. He didn't mind the New England winters so much. He remembered when he was a boy, building snowmen with his friends. He built one with his mother once, pretending the snowman was his father. His mother had laughed, went into the longhouse and came back with a blue-grey tricorn hat with gold edging. She had plopped it on the snowman's head and said that it was now his father. He had played until dark with that snowman, and wore the tricorn hat back home. It was lost in the fire. "If you come up during the winter, Aveline, I will show you that the snow can be fun," Connor said. "There are plenty of ways to stay warm during the winter."

Aveline chuckled. "I'm sure there are _mon amour_ ," Aveline shot a glance over her shoulder at him before leaping to another branch. "How else would one past those long cold winter nights?"

"By sleeping," Connor said, bluntly. He leapt grabbed a branch, swung and landed on the next one on the other side of the pool of water. He glanced down, noticing a golden eye, before it vanished into the murky depths of the bayou. Aveline laughed out loud.

"So, what brings you down to Louisiana?" she asked, resting on a wide branch. Connor joined her.

"You did not answer my letters," he said, "I got worried."

"Aaw, _mon cher, vous_ _ê_ _tes si doux!_ " Aveline cooed, placing a hand over her heart. "Your concern is so touching, Connor." She cupped his face before pulling her hand away. "I've been busy, that's all. No time to write."

"What are we doing in the bayou?" Connor asked. Aveline pointed.

"You see that man over there? His name is Pierre de Sauveterre," Aveline said, "he's a Templar and has been stirring up trouble within the bayou."

"And it took you this long to find him?" Connor asked, unimpressed with Aveline's lack of ability to deal with one Templar.

" _Mon Dieu, tu es incroyable!_ Do you have _any_ idea how large the bayou is? You can effectively hide an entire army within these swamps. It's taken me much longer than I would have liked just to locate him."

"So," Connor began, "how do you plan to eliminate him?"

"I don't know yet," Aveline muttered. "He helps runaway slaves, but instead he sends them back to their masters." Aveline spat, muttering a curse in French. "I would like to pose as a slave and slip in with the other escapees and kill him that way, but… it'll be difficult."

"Why not just swim to the island he is on," Connor said, eyeing the pale brown-green water. "He would never suspect it."

Aveline laughed. "Connor, you truly know nothing of the bayou," Aveline said, "there are alligators in these waters and swimming could lure them to you. It's too dangerous to swim."

"I see no alligators, Aveline," Connor said, before standing up. "I will eliminate Pierre de Sauveterre." He looked at her, determination etched onto his face. "I am a strong swimmer," he added before diving into the water.

"Wait, Connor!" Aveline shouted, but it was too late. He made hardly a splash and swam towards the island Pierre was on. Aveline chewed her lip nervously before following him through the tree tops. She had to admit he was a strong swimmer, and she had trouble keeping up with him. The island wasn't far and within a few moments, Connor had found himself a nice hiding spot among some cat-o'-nine-tails and other water plants.

Aveline held her breath, watching to see what Connor would do. She never saw him actually kill before, but she had heard the stories from the United States. The man seemed to have no fear, immunity to pain, and was savagely brutal in combat, lacking the finesse of tutored combat. Raw and primal, she heard it described. Yet, one can tell a lot about an assassin on how they executed their stealth kills.

She heard Connor whistle from his hiding spot, and so did Pierre. The Templar muttered a curse and walked towards the cat-o'-nine-tails. "If there is nothing here…" he muttered to himself, wading into the muck. Aveline flicked her hidden blade out, wondering if Connor had lured Pierre here, guessing she would follow him, and thus allowing her to make her kill.

She retraced her hidden blade when she saw a flash of white move. Connor struck sure and swift. One blade going into Pierre's side and the other through his throat as Connor fell upon him, dragging him into the muck. Pierre never realized he was dead. Aveline saw Connor swim away from the island, and she headed back to where they had been speaking a few minutes before.

She beat him there, pushing herself through the trees. She landed on the soggy ground, frogs croaking in the distance. Connor popped up a few feet from shore. "Aveline, where are the—"

"Connor get out of the water!" Aveline screamed, spying a tell-tale ripple in the water. A gator had come, probably lured by Pierre's corpse. Connor was easy prey for the large reptile. " _Vite vite!_ " Aveline yelled, standing on the edge, her ankles submerged. Connor frowned and began to swim, but with none of the urgency she was hoping. He didn't see the gator; he didn't know the danger he was in. Aveline had heard from Agaté how men have died from swimming in the gator infested waters. "Connor, hurry!" Aveline screamed. He was almost to her, almost close enough that she could risk wading out further and grab his hand.

He vanished beneath the murky surface of the water.

" _Connor!_ " Aveline screamed, a note of panic in her voice. She stared at the spot he had vanished, her heart pounding in her throat. She shifted, inching further into the water. There was no way for her to help him, she'd be useless in the water, as good as dead if another gator happens to come by. Tears pricked her eyes, and Aveline furiously wiped them away.

She didn't want to lose Connor. He was a good man, a brilliant assassin, fiercely loyal, honorable, honest and extremely blunt. There was a darkness to him, the crucible of the Revolutionary War had left its mark and his naïveté had morphed into a bitter cynicism, yet despite it all, Connor still clung to hope that there is still some good left in the world.

A red stain blossomed upon the surface of the water. Aveline felt her heart leap into her throat, she refused to believe Connor was dead.

He broke the surface suddenly, gasping loudly for breath, the gator thrashing beneath him in a violent effort to dislodge Connor. "Aveline—" Connor managed before the gator began to spin into its death roll.

"Connor!" Aveline cried, watching more blood appear on the surface of the water. Moments ticked by; each passing second Aveline feared for Connor's life. She was about to swim out when the gator's limp body suddenly floated to the surface, wounds oozing blood. She heard a great gasp and splashes. Connor broke the surface again, slapping the water before swimming to the shore.

He flopped onto the soggy ground, groaning. Aveline rushed to him, noting the bite wound on his leg. "Aveline," Connor said, pushing himself into a sitting position, "I'm sorry I—"

Aveline kissed him, silencing him. It was a kiss filled with concern, passion, fear, anger, love. Aveline was surprised how soft his lips were and how willingly he returned it, despite it being completely unexpected. She pulled away, staring into his amber eyes, his dark hair dripping water; his hood had fallen off in his battle with the gator. "Connor… _t'es en colère? Vous auriez pu morts! Que pensiez-vous que la lutte alligator! Vous grosse bête folle ... Je pensais que je perdais toi ... Dieu merci, vous êtes bien… Dieu merci... Dieu merci… Dieu merci_ ," Aveline muttered, holding him tightly.

Connor held her, hand running up and down her back. "I have fought bears, cougars and wolves before Aveline," Connor said.

"That's not the point!" Aveline shot back, pulling away to stare at him. "I… I love you, Ratonhnhaké:ton!" Aveline whispered. "I felt so weak… so helpless… I couldn't help you and that… was more terrifying than anything I have ever faced before, that sense of helplessness."

"Aveline," Connor whispered, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. "I am sorry I worried you," he whispered. "I will not do it again. At least… I will not try to wrestle alligators again." Connor chuckled softly and pulled her into his embrace.

" _Je vous remercie_ ," Aveline whispered, snuggling against Connor's chest, enjoying the sound of his heartbeat. It last for a moment before Connor pulled her away to stare at her.

"Wait… you love me?" he asked, sounding unsure, hopeful and confused all at once.

" _Oui_ ," she replied, a smile on her lips. He kissed her this time, long, slow and tender. She moaned just a little bit.

* * *

 **Eeeeh? Not exactly what I wanted. I had too many distractions last night to finish but, overall I'm pleased with it.**

 **For the big drop of French, just submit it through Google Translate. But the gist of it basically Aveline is tell Connor he's a big dummy for taking on a gator and she's thanking god he's alright.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo**


	35. New Daddy

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Connor watched as Mindy ladled the two hard boiled eggs into a bowl, as he spread strawberry jelly on some toast, before setting it on the plate. "Thanks for your help Mindy," Connor said, getting the jug of milk and pouring it into the glass.

"No problem, your mom is really nice, closing the place on Mother's Day," Mindy looked around empty kitchen of _The Laughing Turtle_. "Most places don't close on Mother's Day."

"Ista owns it, so she can set the hours. Besides, she's open on Father's Day," Connor said with a shrug. "So, I guess it balances out." He set the glass of milk on the tray. "I mean, the only holidays we're closed on is Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's. Half hours on Fourth of July, Memorial and Labour Days, and active duty military and veterans eat free on Veteran's Day and their family's get half price!" Connor beamed.

"Well aren't you a little walking advertisement," Mindy chuckled, picking up the tray. "What about Valentine's Day?"

"Ista doesn't believe in Valentine's Day," Connor said, opening the door that lead to the stairwell that lead to the living quarters above _The Laughing Turtle_. "She says it's a bunch of made-up mumbo-jumbo. Love… _true love_ , isn't real."

"Oh that's nonsense, she loves you," Mindy pointed out. Connor frowned, he'd experience a lot in his eight years, but his mother was older than him and she knew a thing or two about love.

"I think she means love for another person that isn't family. I'm family," Connor said, "so I don't count."

"Aah, what about your father? Does she love your father?" Mindy asked. Connor stopped in mid-step, lowering his foot back down. "Connor?"

"He left," Connor stated, his voice cool and distant. "Ista said he didn't love her anymore, that he didn't love me… so he left."

"Oh," Mindy's face fell, "Jeez, I'm sorry Connor. I didn't know that. I mean, I've only been working here for a few years, not like Alan and Yvonne. They've been working here since your mother opened the place."

"Yeah, they have. Alan slips me sweets sometimes," Connor said, mischief sparkling in his eye. "Don't tell Ista thought."

Mindy chuckled, "Alright I won't." They reached the top, Connor opened the door and stepped inside before accepting the tray. "You pamper your mama, okay Connor? She brought you into this world, and that's her greatest gift to you." Mindy said, tapping him on the nose.

"Alright, bye Mindy, thanks for your help!" Connor said, before kicking the door close and heading to his mother's bedroom. He nudged the door open with his toe. Their calico, Zoë, looked up when she heard the door open and gave a welcoming meow. Ziio was asleep on her stomach, clutching her pillow, legs spread out to take up as much space and her black hair cascading down her back. She grunted in her sleep, clutching her pillow tighter. Connor walked up to her and nudged her arm with the tray a few times.

"Uh…" Ziio pushed herself up. "Ratonhnhaké:ton… what time… nine-thirty, I told you to wake me up at seven!"

"But… it's Mother's Day, Ista… so," Connor looked around, before lifting the tray up higher, "Happy Mother's Day Ista! I made you breakfast!"

"Oh, how thoughtful," Ziio took the tray, shifted and set it on her lap. "Thank you, did you make this all by yourself?"

"Uh-huh! Well… Mindy helped me a little bit, but I made the toast and the milk!" Connor pointed out.

"Very good, my angel," Ziio said, pulling her son close and kissing his forehead. "I appreciate it that you are so thoughtful. You're turning into a real gentleman."

Connor beamed. "But your real present has come yet," Connor said.

"My real present?" Ziio arched her brow. "What are you plotting, Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

"Nothing!" Connor chimed, an impish grin on his face. "Can we go to the park? It's nice out today, so… let's go to the park?"

Ziio chuckled, cracking open her hard boil egg. "Yes, we can go to the park this afternoon, but first we have to clean up the place."

"But it's Mother's Day!" Connor whined.

"You know that Sunday is the day we clean. So we are going to clean it up, and then go to the park."

Connor groaned, flopping back onto the bed. Zoë gave an indigent look at the boy before jumping off the bed to go to her cat tree by the window. "Fine," Connor huffed eventually. "I bet Jacob and Evie's mom isn't making them clean, today."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Ziio said, "I bet their daddy is though."

"Speaking of daddies… can… are you ever…" Connor rolled onto his stomach to look at his mother. "If… my father… if he came back would you be mad at him?"

Ziio sighed, took a bite of her egg and used that as an excuse to think. She swallowed and looked at her son. She ran her fingers through his hair, even now she could see traces of his father in his face, the set of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the width of his mouth. She loved her son's father… once. Hell she probably still loved him, which was why thinking about him hurt so much. "He made his bed and now he has to lie in it."

Connor wrinkled his nose. "What does that even mean?"

"It means, that your father made his choices and now he has to suffer the consequences."

"Okay… but what did he do?" Connor pressed, this was the first time he could remember his mother being so forth coming about his father. "Did he kill someone? Jacob said that the reason daddies leave is because they either murdered someone or are drug dealers," Connor frowned. "Was my father a drug dealer?"

"You shouldn't listen to _everything_ Jacob Frye tells you."

"But he's my best friend!"

"Best friend or not, you shouldn't listen to everything he says," Ziio said. "No… no your father… he was a lawyer. He got me Zoë," Ziio whispered glancing at the cat. "We were in love; it was us against the world."

"And then what happened?" Connor asked.

 _They are sending me to London, Ziio. I know we aren't married yet, but we can get a license and we can go together. Please, Ziio, come with me._ "He felt that his job was more important than me," Ziio finally said.

"Oh… but… did he know I was going to be born?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore Ratonhnhaké:ton, let's get started on cleaning, so we can go to the park faster," Ziio said, finishing her breakfast.

"Fine," Connor grumbled, slipping off the bed. He grabbed the double plastic bag and the poop scooper and began to clean Zoë's box.

* * *

"Hey, Mister! Do you want to be my new daddy?" Connor asked the man selling hot dogs. The man quirked his eyebrow up, looking at Connor. "My mommy is really nice and—mmmffff!" Ziio's hands fell over his mouth.

"I'm so sorry sir, but he's harmless," Ziio said. "He's just upset his father is always working."

"Understandable," the hot dog salesman said as Ziio left Connor off.

"Ista," Connor whined, squirming away. "Can you stop?"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, I don't know what you're playing at but you need to stop going up to random people and asking if they want to be your father," Ziio said.

"Why? Don't you want me to have a daddy?" Connor asked. Ziio sighed, rubbing her forehead.

"Isn't Mr. Davenport not a good… person? You like spending time at his house."

"No," Connor muttered, "Mr. Davenport is smelly. He smells like old people."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio chided.

"It's the truth!" Connor protested. "Plus he's always sleeping and I can't watch cartoons at his place. He says they rot my brain." Connor pouted. "Please, can I ask one more person?"

"No, it's rude and awkward."

"But Ista! I wanted to get you a new daddy for Mother's Day!" Connor sighed. "If I had a real daddy I wouldn't have to go to Mr. Davenport's after school. I don't understand why you don't let me stay over and Jacob's after school, he lives across the little park behind us _and_ Henry, who's fourteen, watches us."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio growled. "You know why I don't let you go over to Jacob's after school."

"Jacob jumped outta the tree on his own," Connor protested. "He said he had super powers and could fly like Superman."

"Doesn't matter, now, let's go to the jungle gym over there," Ziio said, taking her son's hand. Connor pulled his hand free. "Ratonhnhaké:ton!" Connor tore off, running to the first man he saw. A guy in a suit, holding a brief case and talking in British accent English. "Ratonhnhaké:ton, get bac here!" Ziio shouted.

Connor stopped breathless before the man, reached up and tugged on the man's sleeve. "One moment," the man said and moved the phone from his mouth. "What?"

"Hello, mister, I have a really important question," Connor said.

"I'm going to have to call you back, Charles, some little boy is lost in the park," the man said and hung up. "Now what is it son?"

"Can you be my new daddy?" Connor chirped, a smile on his face.

"Eh?" the man glanced around, "you're new… daddy?"

"Uh-huh," Connor said, "my real daddy left before I was born and my mommy is sad about that, so… since it's Mother's Day, I'm gonna get her a new daddy!"

"Well, I… I don't know," the man said.

"It's okay, you only have to… to… date her, once," Connor said, "but if you really like her you can go on another date or, if you really-really like her, my friend Jacob says that's when you can naked cuddle her in bed!"

"Oh really?" the man said, shocked. Ziio grabbed Connor by the arm and started scowled him in Mohawk.

"I'm sorry sir, about my son. He's impish sometimes and—"

"Good God, Ziio! Is that you?" the man shouted, placing a hand on her shoulder. Connor looked between his mother and the man. Ziio's face went wooden.

"You know my mommy? Awesome! You're perfect! Isn't he perfect Ista? I'm Connor Kenway!" Connor shouted.

"Connor _Kenway_?" the man asked, baffled.

"C'mon Ratonhnhaké:ton, we're going home," Ziio said and tugged her son away from the man.

"But… Ista! He knows you! He's perfect, he seems nice and I know I'll really like him," Connor protested as he was drugged away.

"Well, I don't," Ziio growled.

"Ziio, wait! Come back!" the man ran after them. "Ziio, damn it, woman listen!"

"No, I'm done listening to you, Haytham, leave me and my son alone!" Ziio snapped, confronting the man, Haytham. She glowered at him. "You made your choice eight years ago and I made mine."

"Your name is Haytham, too?" Connor asked, before his mother or Haytham could begin arguing. "Cool! Sometimes my mommy will say Haytham in her sleep," he mumbled. "Don't tell he I told you that."

"I'm right here, Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio growled. "Now let's go." She tugged her son but Haytham grabbed her arm. "Let go of me Haytham!" she shouted, twisting in an effort to free herself.

"Do you want to cause a scene?" Haytham hissed, eyeing a few of the mothers and fathers at the park. He forced a smile. "You know, that time of the month." He told the on-looking parents.

"It's not," Ziio growled, but she stopped fighting.

"Now, let's… talk… at your place, I'll call Charles and tell him to cover for me," Haytham said and made a quick phone call. Connor looked at his mother.

"He's the one," he whispered, "I can tell." Ziio rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh, placing a hand on her son's head.

* * *

They went back to _The Laughing Turtle_ , Ziio leading the way and grumbling unhappily in Mohawk. Haytham stopped in the stairwell that lead to the upstairs living quarters. "So many memories," he whispered, looking at the pictures. A mix of profession achievements and family photos.

"Whoa," Connor gasped, "you've been here before?"

"Of course, I use to—"

" _Zoë!_ Ratonhnhaké:ton, get the cat!" Ziio shouted, as Zoë bolted out the door. Connor squatted at the base of the steps and scooped up the cat.

"Hehehe, you know better than to try to escape Zoë," Connor said, beaming up at Haytham. "My real daddy got Zoë for my mommy." Connor walked up the steps. "But he's gone now. He left before I was born," Connor looked at Haytham, "Jacob says that the reason he left was because he was either a drug dealer or he murdered someone."

"A drug dealer?" Haytham sputtered indignantly, he reached the top step, as Connor slipped into the house. Ziio stepped outside and closed the door. "Are you going to invite me in?"

"What do you want Haytham?" Ziio asked, folding her arms over her chest. She stared him down, protective of her son. "Ratonhnhaké:ton is a very impressionable and he needs a man in his life."

"I see," Haytham sighed, "You know I never minded kids. I've been thinking of settling down and…" he looked at her. "If you give me another chance, I'll be a good father to him. Even though he isn't mine."

Ziio barked a laugh. "Oh he's yours alright," she snipped, a strange smile flickering across her lips. "I was pregnant when you left."

Haytham jaw dropped, he took a step back and had to use the wall to steady himself. He had a son, he met his son, and he never knew the entire time. For eight years he had a son and he never even knew. He swallowed thickly. "Why… why didn't you tell me you were pregnant? I would've—"

"Done exactly as you did originally!" Ziio hissed. "You abandoned me! You left for London and you never came back!"

"I've been back for six years! I did come back! I stood across the street and stared at this place! Saw your and our son's silhouettes in the window and I felt… heartbroken. I thought you moved on," Haytham looked away, "I couldn't… I couldn't bare it… coming to your door and showing me face."

"Moved on? Moved on! Haytham, you asshole, I," Ziio stopped. "The point is, you never bothered to show up, you never bothered to call. I told you I didn't want to go to London, that I didn't want _you_ to go to London. But you went any!"

"So I could provide for you! I went to London because I got better pay! Everything I did was for you! I wanted you to come, I so desperately wanted you to come!" Haytham ran a hand through his hair. "I never stopped loving you. I thought… I tried to call you a thousand times after that argument… I just… as soon as the phone rang I would hang up… I don't know why, I… felt…" Haytham huffed and sat down on the steps. To his surprise Ziio joined him. "I missed you, Ziio, and… if you had told me I would've turned down London. I thought that… since we were going to get married… we could… settle down in London or… I don't know. I don't remember anymore."

"I don't even remember what the fight over the phone was about," Ziio whispered. "I probably said something stupid," Ziio whispered, "and I told you why I couldn't leave. Well… I could have but… I didn't want to." She looked away. "I should've told you… that I was pregnant. I wanted to tell you, I did I just… felt… that you'd leave me."

"Ziio," Haytham whispered, taking her hand, "I was engaged to you," he breathed, bring her knuckles up to his lips. "I would have been happy. I would've stayed…"

"You still left…" Ziio whispered.

"I'm sorry…" Haytham mumbled. "It… It was the worst mistake I made in my life, I lost something precious and I didn't realize how much I missed it until it was actually gone. Forgive me?"

"Eventually," Ziio said, resting her head on his shoulder. "It'll take time but… I think… I think we can work things out. I know Ratonhnhaké:ton—" Ziio was silenced when Haytham kissed her. Connor opened the door just then.

"Hey, Jacob! Your planned worked! I found the perfect guy at the park and he's kissing my mom right now! Yeah, I think he's gonna be my new daddy."

Ziio and Haytham pulled away, flushing in mortification. "Ratonhnhaké:ton…" Ziio growled.

"Hold on Jacob," Connor said, "Yes Ista?"

"This is Haytham Kenway… your real father," Ziio said. Connor's eyes grew wide, a grin spreading across his face.

"Hey, Jacob? Call ya back, I happen to find my _real_ father today in the park! Yeah, I'll tell you all about it at school tomorrow, later," Connor said, hanging up and setting the phone down. He wormed his way between his parents, grinning at both of them. "I told ya he was the one Ista!" Connor whispered. "You had a good Mother's Day right?"

Ziio smiled, looking at Haytham then at Connor. "Yes, I had a good Mother's Day."

* * *

 **And... yeah.**

 **Nothing to say. Belated Mother's day thing.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo**


	36. Parental Advisory

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Evie didn't like the looks of this. She didn't like the looks of this at all. "What is that?" she asked, pointing to the contraption in her brother's lap. Jacob looked down, wrench still in his hand, he tightened the nut. "Jacob."

"I have no idea what you're talking about dearest sister," Jacob replied, an innocent look on his face. Evie groaned, rubbing her face with both hands.

"What bull-headed hair-brained idea do you have this time?" Evie asked. "You know Dad is—"

" _Dad_ isn't here Evie," Jacob stressed, grabbing another piece of material from his pile of scraps, "he's at that stupid faculty thingy he had to go to."

"He still wouldn't approve."

"I don't care," Jacob replied in a sing-song voice. "I'm going to finish my brilliant invention and then take it out back and give it a test run."

"What _brilliant_ invention it this time?" Evie huffed. Jacob grinned at her and held up the device, which looked like a badly put together metal kite. "Are those my dresses?"

Jacob looked at the fabric secured with super-glue and duct tape to the frame. "Yep!" he beamed at his sister. "I figured you wouldn't mind if I cut up some of your dresses since you tell Grams you hate them."

"But they were _mine_ Jacob! You can't just go and… and… and _take my things!_ " Evie screeched, crushing the air in her hands.

"Why not?" Jacob asked, an innocent note in his voice. "You do it all the time."

"What!" Evie shrieked. "I don't go and take your things! How dare you accuse me of taking your things, Jacob!"

"Well you do! You took away my hook-gun—"

"That's because it was dangerous!"

"You took away my heavy duty industrial scissors—"

"You took two kitchen knives and put a bolt through them."

"I know, that was brilliant, wasn't it?"

"No, Jacob, that was stupid and dangerous."

"You also took my favorite t-shirt—"

"I only took it to wash it. Once it was cleaned, I folded it and put it in your dresser."

"Oh, so that's what happened to it. No wonder I couldn't find it. It wasn't in the clean laundry pile," Jacob mused, looking at the two piles of laundry in his room. One was small and more pleasantly smelling than the larger stinkier pile of clothes. Evie's jaw dropped at the sight of the two laundry piles. "I need to my laundry," Jacob mused. Evie groaned loudly in frustration. "So, yeah, those are the things that you took! I only cut up three dresses. So we're even."

"We are not _even_ Jacob! For one, I only took away your dangerous items and I washed your shirt! You… you… _butchered_ my dresses!"

"But you hardly ever wear them Evie!" Jacob protested. "And you said it yourself, that you don't like dresses."

"But that's not the point! I would've been more than happy to give you the stupid dresses if you…" Evie stared again at the fabric, "you only picked the ugly ones didn't you?"

Jacob smirked. "About time you noticed."

"Alright then," Evie said, tossing her head and folding her arms over her chest in a huff, like a bird settling its ruffled feathers, "I don't mind that you used those dresses. They were hideous and I never intended to wear them anyway."

"So… you're not gonna murder me in my sleep?" Jacob asked, eyeing her suspiciously. Evie chuckled, mirth in her eyes.

"I haven't ruled that out just yet, brother mine," she tilted her head, "though that contraption—"

"Most awesome brilliant invention."

"—might just spare me the trouble of doing it myself."

Jacob put a hand over his heart, a wounded expression on his face. "You wound me, sweet sister, you wound me. And here I thought we were partners in crime, together since conception, a modern day Bonny and Clyde!"

"Oh please," Evie muttered, rolling her eyes. "Are you almost done with that thing?"

"Why so you can lock it up and tell Dad that I was going to do something stupid?" Jacob asked, looking his invention over. "You know; I'm going to be a famous inventor like Thomas Edison one day."

"I know," Evie said, an easy smile on her lips. "But seriously, what is it?" she pointed to the contraption Jacob had constructed.

"It's a human kite! Or one-man flying machine. Whichever you prefer. I'm calling it the Jacob Frye Air Man 2000!"

"Why 2000?"

"Because it sounds catchy, now… I'm almost done," Jacob said, grunting as he tightened down another bolt. "There. Alright, she's ready! Let's go out and take her for a spin."

"You aren't going to climb that tree again are you?"

"Of course, why?"

"Well, I wanna be the test pilot," Evie said, a dangerous glint in her eyes. Jacob stared at her, clutching his invention. "Please Jacob!"

"Why the sudden interest? Normally you're the one trying to talk _me_ out of trying to break my neck."

"Well," Evie scuffed the carpet with her toe, "I like doing dangerous stuff too."

"Oh sure, reading library books is real life threatening. _Oh help me Henry! I got a paper cut! I gonna die!_ " Jacob mocked. Evie's cheeks tinted red, eyes narrowing.

"You leave Henry Green out of this!"

"Or what?" Jacob asked, leaning forward. "There is nothing that you have on me that I haven't told Dad yet."

"Oh really?" Evie smirked, preening as she remembered the one thing her brother has kept quiet.

"Uh-huh. He already knows about my porno stash under my bed."

"Oh? But does he know that you kissed Connor last week?" Evie asked, grinning wickedly as Jacob's face paled to a nice shade similar to milk. She slowly walked around him. "How you kissed a boy," she leaned in close, "and _liked it_!"

"I kissed Pearl Attaway!" Jacob protested, his cheeks turning pink. "And the pornos are all of hot chicks! I like girls too!"

"Yes, but you still kissed a _boy_ and _liked it_!" Evie teased.

"Evie, don't you dare tell Dad. Connor even swore he wouldn't speak of it, and he didn't like it. So, please don't tell Dad I'm… I'm…" Jacob sighed, "that I'm bisexual."

"Let me be the test pilot for your stupid kite thing and I'll keep my mouth shut," Evie said, "though I'm pretty sure Dad already knows, he's just keeping his mouth shut out of respect to you."

"Alright, you can be the test pilot," Jacob muttered, reluctantly. He got to his feet, using his foot to close his tool box. "C'mon, then," he said, "let's go to the backyard."

* * *

Evie regretted ever talking Jacob into letting her be the test pilot. She wondered why her sensible logical side didn't kick in and tell her to keep her mouth shut. She pressed herself up against the tree trunk. Jacob did the stupid things. Jacob did the daredevil stunts. Jacob got his bones broken and laughed about it at school the next day. She was sensible Evie Frye: Student body president, cheer captain, debate team captain and a straight A student. She didn't do crazy stuff like this, though she always wanted to, and she use to get into loads of mischief with Jacob when they were kids.

But she was fifteen now. She had to focus on getting into a good college so she can get a good job and achieve her dreams. "C'mon Evie! Take the Jacob Frye Air Man 2000! My arms are getting tired holding it up!" Jacob shouted from below.

"Right," Evie said, steeling herself. She squatted down and grabbed the stupid looking kite thing Jacob had haphazardly put together with scrap metal, super glue, duct tape and swaths of her ugly dresses. Evie thanked god she had the foresight to put on her bike helmet.

"Now, remember, Evie!" Jacob called from below as she positioned the bulky thing on her back. A weird piece of metal jabbed into her spine. "Inch out until the branch can barely support you and then jump! You should catch the updraft and glide for a foot or two."

"Jacob," Evie said, staring out at the end of the branch that seemed too far away, "I love you, but honestly… I don't think you have a good understanding of the physics behind flight."

"Nonsense, of course I do! It'll work!" Jacob said. "So, go… whenever you're ready!"

"Hi guys," a voice said. "Whatcha doing?"

"Connor! Evie, don't worry about a thing! If you get hurt, Connor can get his dad!" Jacob said.

"Evie, why are you up in the tree this time?" Connor asked, Evie peered down at her best friend and neighbour. He was wearing a grey t-shirt and black jeans, a watch on his left wrist, and some tribal bracelets she was sure he made himself on his right.

"She wanted to do it this time," Jacob said. "Beats me, I really wanted to take the Jacob Frye Air Man 2000 out for a spin."

"Is that seriously what you named it?"

"Why does everyone hate the names I give my inventions!"

"Because they're dumb half the time," Connor pointed out.  
"Hurry up and jump Evie! Unless your chicken!" Jacob said and began to cluck loudly like a frightened hen. Evie scowled.

"I'm not chicken! Watch!" Evie said and shimmied out along the branch until it began to sag beneath her weight. Taking a deep breath she jumped right when the wind gust.

There was no thermal.

She was falling.

The ground was rushing up much too fast.

She let go of Jacob's stupid contraption.

She screamed as she hit the ground and heard a sickening crunch. "Evie!" Jacob and Connor shouted. Evie whimpered in pain, as her brother pulled his ruined invention off of her. "Evie are you alright?"

"Dad! Dad!" Connor was already yelling and running back to the restaurant where his mother worked and he and his family lived above. "Dad! Evie's been hurt, but I'm fine! Can you call the ambulance?"

"It's okay Evie," Jacob whispered, "I gotcha. Connor's getting his dad to call an ambulance right now."

"I'm sorry Jacob," Evie whispered, leaning into her brother. "I ruined the Jacob Frye Air Man 2000."

"It's okay, it was a design flaw. I'll make it better next time," he said. "Everything will be alright, I promise."

* * *

When Ethan Frye got the text message from Haytham, he thought it was Jacob doing something reckless again. So he had to read it twice before realizing, Evie was the one that got hurt. This was baffling and highly concerning. Thus he excused himself from the meeting and hastily made his way to the hospital.

Jacob and Connor were sitting in the hospital room with Evie while Haytham Kenway was trying to explain to the nurse that Evie wasn't his daughter. "…Ah, see! _This_ is her father, Ethan." Haytham said, gesturing to a harried looking Ethan as he smoothed down his tie. "Connor let's go."

"Bye Evie," Connor said with a little wave and followed his father. Jacob shrunk into his seat once Ethan turned his attention on them.

"What the hell did you do Jacob?" Ethan hissed.

"Dad, it's my fault, I talked him into letting me—"

"Quiet Evie!" Ethan snapped. "Jacob, explain now."

"Why? So you can just ground me for a month because Evie didn't want to be a tight laced prude anymore and decided to do something daring."

"Jacob!" Ethan and Evie hissed. Jacob sheepishly glanced at his sister before glaring at his father. "Jacob," Ethan said again, "what happened?"

"Evie took one of my inventions for a test run. It crashed and burned… metaphorically, and she broke her arm."

"Dad," Evie said, before Ethan could lay down the punishment. "It wanted to do it. I talked Jacob into letting me do it. He was going to do it himself as he always did, but I…" Evie swallowed, "I wanted to do it."

"Evie, didn't it cross your mind how dangerous that was?" Ethan asked, going to his daughter's side. He smoothed her hair from her brow. "You could've broken your neck."

"Of course," Jacob said, standing up, "you're worried about Evie breaking her neck when she does something stupid, but what about me? Don't you even care about me?"

"Jacob," Ethan growled.

"No, ever since Mom died, you've been treating me like I'm some sort of… of… _mistake!_ "

"Jacob, not now," Evie hissed, glancing between her brother and father. Jacob glared at his father, knowing he hit a nerve.

"No, I'm sick of it, Evie! Mom died nine years ago and you're still acting like it's my fault that I had soccer practice! You were _supposed_ to pick me up but you didn't! So," Jacob said, "it's your fault Mom was even driving and got hit by that drunk driver!"

Ethan clenched his fists and unclenched them several times unable to look at either of his two children. He took several deep breathes before walking closer to Jacob. "Daddy, please don't!" Evie protested, but instead Ethan pulled his son into a hug.

"I'm sorry Jacob," Ethan whispered. "It's not fair of me to blame you for something you had no control over. I'm sorry. I'm a bad father."

Jacob was frozen for several moments before wrapping his arms around his father and hiding his face in Ethan's chest. Jacob sniffed, tears coming unbidden. "I'm sorry too."

"No, don't be," Ethan mumbled. "I needed to hear it. I probably needed to hear it for a long time, nobody bothered to tell me though."

Jacob nodded, sniffed a few more times before pulling away and scrubbing at his face. "Okay, I'm better now." He said, smiling, though Evie could tell it was forced and weak. Ethan chuckled.

"If you say so Jacob," he turned his attention back to Evie. "Now. Let's see what the doctor has to say about you, princess."

* * *

They were sitting in their closets, the hidden hole opened. Evie had her broken arm propped up on her knees. "You didn't have to make a scene at the hospital Jacob," Evie said, her good hand through the hole, she could feel Jacob's thumb stroking the back of it.

"I'm sorry," Jacob muttered.

"But Dad did need to hear that," Evie added, "just not… at the hospital."

"I felt bad for what happened… so I just… snapped," he muttered. Evie smiled, a small chuckle escaping her lips. "What?"

"You try to act all tough, but you really do care."

"Of course I do!" Jacob protested, "you're my sister… my _twin_ sister. We've been together since… conception. I… I don't know what I'd do if I lost you Evie."

Evie pressed her head against the cool wall of her closet. "I don't know what I'd do either Jacob. But I'm here now and I won't be going anywhere any time soon."

"Of course not," Jacob said, "because you won't be doing any test piloting anymore."

"You know," Evie said, twisting her good hand around to squeeze his fingers, "same goes for you. You're my _twin_ brother, and I won't know how to function without you by my side. We've been together since the beginning."

"What about Henry?" Jacob asked.

"Henry is… different," Evie mumbled, feeling her cheeks tint. "But my point still stands. Don't go getting yourself killed, because I need you too."

"Fine, I won't do as many reckless things," Jacob sighed.

"Good," Evie said. "Now, let's go to bed, before Dad comes in and checks on us."

"He hasn't done that since you were thirteen," Jacob pointed out, but he had already let go of Evie's hand.

"Better safe than sorry," she quipped, pulling her hand through the hole.

"True, well, night sweet sister," Jacob said, putting up his board.

"Night dear brother," Evie said and moved her board into place.

* * *

 **Originally Jacob was the one that did the test pilot, but I thought it'll be interesting if Evie did it. Overall I'm pleased with how this turned out. It makes me want to play Syndicate.**

 **But first… I need to finish Unity…**

 **Ugh! Why do I have school tomorrow! I want to play Unity now, but I can't because of school! HISSS!**

 **Since I couldn't think up of any plausible reason for Cecily to die in childbirth as per canon, she died when the twins were six because a drunk driver hit her. This scenario may or may not end up in** _ **Ethan Frye's Guide to Child Rearing**_ **. I haven't decided yet. This story is unrelated to** _ **Ethan Frye's Guide to Child Rearing**_ **but is set in the same modern day alternate universe as the** _ **Guide to Child Rearing**_ **series are. This is also my first Frye twin focused fic. I had the idea and I just had to write it.**

 **And of course the twins have a secret hole in their closets that connect their rooms. They are twins after all.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **If you don't review, I'll assume you hold some level of contempt for this fic and wish to see Connor cry.**

 **So… do you want to be responsible for Connor's tears?**

 **Nemo**

 **PS: TC and Haytham are like Connor and Achilles. TC is the cranky old cat and Haytham is the cute cuddly spunky kitten that just wants to play. TC highly disapproves of the idea.**


	37. Come with Me

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

It was a warm pleasant breeze; autumn was rapidly setting in. Haytham needed to make a choice and he wanted to talk to her before deciding on what to do. He hated the fact that he was indecisive, he normally never had issues on choosing his course in life but Ziio… she muddled everything in his life.

She was also bloody impossible to find when she didn't want to be found; he mused standing there with his hands behind his back as he scanned the treetops looking for her. "Looking for me," she asked, startling him. He jumped to the side, eyes widening when he saw her lounging like a puma upon a branch. An easy smile graced her lips. Haytham swallowed, falling deeper in love with her. He knew he couldn't abandon her… at least he couldn't leave without telling her.

"Ziio," Haytham licked his lips, her finger rested lightly on the tip of his tricorn, the breeze rustling the loose strains of her black hair. "I… I… there is something important that I have to do… and… I want to know," he sighed, rubbing his mouth, "will you help me?"

Ziio chuckled, resting her cheek on her hand. She plucked Haytham's hat up, removing it from his head. "Let me think about it," she teased, smirking at the little blush tinting his cheeks. She leaned forward and kissed him then. She felt him place a hand on her shoulder to stabilize her. He was a gentleman when he wanted to be. They broke apart.

"Well," Haytham said, "think quickly, I leave in a few days upon the Morrígan for London."

"London?" Ziio asked, sitting up, legs dangling on either side of a branch as if she were astride a horse.

"Yes, London."

"Where is London?" she never heard of this place before. "Is it far? Can I come and visit?" she asked, in a tone of a childish innocence.

"I'm afraid not," Haytham sighed, "London is in England… it's across the ocean, the Atlantic." Haytham watched as Ziio's eyes grew wide at that. "I'm sorry Ziio, but I must return to London. I have… an… urgent matter to attend to."

"But you said," Ziio began, "you said you'd stay here. You said that there were still things your order had to do here… that maybe the cave…" Ziio shook her head. "So that's it?" she asked. "You are just going to abandon me and return to your wife in London."

Haytham barked a laugh, slapping a hand to his forehead before dragging it down his face. "My wife? Oh good lord," he chuckled. "Ziio, there is no wife waiting for me in London. I never married."

"But you…" Ziio trailed off, her cheeks tinting pink. Haytham chuckled again. The wind gusted, this time it was a bit nippy and Ziio rubbed her bear arms. She took a step closer to Haytham, who pulled her into his embrace. Ziio sighed and rested her head against his chest.

"Of course I've had… encounters with women before, but I never loved any of them," he said, tilting her chin up, "not like I love you… I do love you, Ziio. Don't doubt that."

"Then why leave me?"

"It's a… personal… a family matter, I don't wish to discuss it, it's… rather personal and would take a good bit of explaining."

"Fine," Ziio muttered, placing her head back on his chest. She should tell him, the harvest season was setting in and she had yet to bleed. She should tell him, especially if he was leaving. "Are you coming back?"

"I'm… I'm not sure," Haytham said, tightening his arms around her slightly as if by clinging to her, he can freeze this moment in time. "I would like to, but I'm not sure if I will… in a timely fashion." An idea sparked in his mind.

"I'm pregnant."

"Come with me."

They stared at each other, before laughing. "I'm sorry, you spoke first tell me, what did you say?" Ziio asked, taking the opportunity to avoid telling Haytham of her condition. He smiled at her.

"Come with me," he said, cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. "Come with me to London. If you've been to Boston it's… grander," Haytham said, he grabbed her hands and stared at her. "Please, Ziio… come with me, come to London with me. We'll get married and you will be my wife. Once I've taken care of the matter back in London we'll return to the Colonies and…" Haytham trailed off. "Ziio?"

"I… I can't," Ziio said, taking a step back. "I can't go to London. I can't leave my people, my land… my home." Ziio watched as something inside broke in Haytham, even though he kept his expression neutral. She felt like she was losing him and he was slipping away from her. She bit her lip before blurting, "I'm pregnant."

"Pregnant," Haytham repeated, surprised. He sighed, shoulders slumping. "Well, that should have been expected," he said in an emotionally ambiguous tone. He hadn't exactly been careful during their more… erotic encounters. He rubbed his face. "We must wed," he said. Ziio frowned at him. "Nothing fancy just a small ceremony. If we leave now, I'm sure we can get to the harbor in a timely manner and Shay can perform the ceremony on his ship."

"But you will still leave," Ziio said, sounding hurt. "You'll abandon me and your child?"

"Ziio, I'm going back to find my sister," Haytham finally said, he couldn't leave now without her knowing. "I… she was betrayed by someone she thought she could trust. I… I lost her and my agent in Europe has finally located her. I can't in good faith just… leave her to whatever fate plans for her. She's my sister… I can't just abandon her." Haytham took her hands. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't be." Ziio said, she understood the importance of family. She would have done the same if it was someone from her family or tribe. "I understand. Family is important. We'll… we'll marry and I will wait for you." She placed a hand on her still flat belly, "We'll both wait."

Haytham felt an easy smile spread across his lips. "I promise," he said, "I will return for you and our child."

Ziio knew by the tone of his voice that nothing short of death will allow him to break that promise.

* * *

They were married that night onboard the Morrígan. Gist having somehow found a ring, a Templar ring, to use for the ceremony. The gathering was small, just Haytham's Templars that he could find on short notice. Ziio wasn't sure if the union would count among her people, but seeing William Johnson there, made her feel like she may convince the clan mother to accept the clobbered together union between her and Haytham, especially once she mentioned the baby.

Shay gave an awkward sermon, trying to pay respect to Ziio's cultural and spiritual beliefs, his Irish Catholic upbringing, and the atheistic view of the Templars. He often stumbled, blushed, muttered an apology, continued only to repeat the process. Finally, Haytham snapped and told him to cut to the chase. This seemed to suit Shay better and he asked Haytham and Ziio if they promised to love each other, support each other, and remain faithful for the end of their days. Haytham softly muttered _I do_ , and Ziio boldly declared yes she would. They kissed and retreated to Shay's cabin, which he had gracefully offered up to them for the night.

As Haytham tugged her into the cramp yet luxurious space of Shay's cabin, Ziio made note of the Templars. She only recognized William Johnson and the few Natives he was able to convince to join the Templar Order. The other two Templars she didn't recognize, though she later learned that one was Shay's first mate. Ziio watched the men on the deck, for a few more seconds before Haytham tugged her into the cabin.

* * *

 _Six Years Later_

It had taken Haytham much longer than he had liked to find Jenny and rescue her, then turn around and meet Shay in the North Atlantic to deal the last crippling blow to the Colonial Assassins, then sail back to Europe to deal with Birch for the final time with Jenny. He gotten a few letters from Ziio in the in between, written in Johnson's hand since she couldn't write.

He had a son. Ziio had named him Ratonhnhaké:ton, in her mother tongue. Haytham hadn't thought of a given name for the child before he left, and left only instructions with Johnson to make sure that the records in Boston showed that a child was born to him. Somehow, Johnson settled upon the name Connor as an appropriate Anglo name for the boy.

Haytham did the figuring in his head. Ziio had told him of their child at the end of the summer in 1755, it was now the spring of 1761. The boy would be around five or six years of age. Too long for a father to finally be meeting his son. "Suppose it runs in the family," he muttered to himself, thinking of his own father, having not met his own daughter until she was about eight. Haytham found the path to Ziio's village easily enough, he had sent word with one of Johnson's contacts ahead so Ziio can be ready to meet him. It would be good to see her again. He smiled at the thought of holding his wife… the thought still baffled him, in his arms after all this time.

He wasn't expecting to see the clan mother with a small boy at her side and Johnson waiting for him. "William," Haytham said, dismounting, "what… what are you doing here?"

"Haytham… I'm…" Johnson began but stopped. "The Clan Mother will explain. I'm… I'm only here to translate."

"Translate?" Haytham was confused, surely Ziio was around and would have taught their son English. "William, where is Ziio?"

"Kaneihtí:io is dead," the Clan Mother said, Johnson translating. It felt like a punch in the gut. Ziio… dead. His wife… whom he only spent a few days with after their wedding was dead! This surely had to be a misunderstanding.

Haytham swallowed. "How?" he forced out. "H-How did Ziio die?" he asked. He will hunt down the bastard and slit their throat for taking his wife from him. Just like how he killed Birch for being the one to push his father into the path of an oncoming carriage.

"In a fire," the Clan Mother said, "started by the soldiers."

"Washington," Haytham hissed. He turned, he would hunt down Washington and kill him.

"Haytham," William called out. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Right. His son. It felt strange now, to have a son. The boy remained mute between the entire exchange, playing with the ring in his hand. Haytham only now recognized it as the ring her had slipped upon Ziio's dainty finger that night all those years ago. He covered his face with his hand, took three deep breathes before looking at his son. His revenge against Washington will have to wait. He had a duty now, to the boy… no not _the boy_ , to his _son._ Haytham walked up and knelt before the boy. "Connor," he said, the boy looked up. It pleased Haytham to note that the boy was familiar with both his Mohawk name and his English name, "I'm your father."

"I know," the boy said, "Mr. Johnson told me and so did _Ista_." Connor looked at the ring in his hands, a sad expression on his face. " _Ista_ said you'd come back."

"I did… I wish I had gotten back sooner though," Haytham said. "I truly do."

"You are here now, though," Connor whispered.

"Yes," Haytham agreed, "yes I am." He turned to face the Clan Mother, "I'll be taking him back with me to Boston." Haytham said. The old woman nodded and said something to Johnson.

"She says that Kaneihtí:io would want Ratonhnhaké:ton… erm, Connor, to also be familiar with his Native heritage as well. I can bring him by for a few weeks so he can learn the ways of his mother's people," Johnson said.

"That's fine," Haytham said, taking his son's hand. "Get his things Johnson, but Connor and I are returning to Boston."

"Can I say goodbye to my friends?" Connor asked, even though he had said goodbye to them already. Haytham frowned, recognizing it as a gambit to stall.

"I'm sure you already said goodbye and you'll be bac here for a few weeks next month," Haytham said. He wanted to leave the village soon, it reminded him too much of Ziio. "Mr. Johnson will bring your things, rest assure."

"Alright…" Connor muttered, accepting Haytham's hand. Haytham lead his son to the horse, put the boy astride the animal before mounting behind him and riding off, never looking back on the village that was once Ziio's home. " _Raké:ni_?" Connor asked. "Father?"

"Yes?" Haytham asked.

"Tell me about _Ista_?" Connor asked, holding onto the saddle with one hand and clutching Ziio's ring tightly with the other. Haytham smiled, a sad smile but lunched into a tale about Ziio nonetheless.

* * *

 **Nermallion drew lovely HayZiio art. So I got inspired.**

 **MohawkWoman had such a beautiful happy idea for the ending but I totally went with the angst! I am evil. Bad Nemo is bad. No cookie for you!**

 **I hope you enjoy! :)**

 **Save an author; leave a review. Otherwise Connor will cry, do you want to be responsible for Connor's tears?**

 **Nemo**


	38. A Most Intriguing Proposition

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Dedication: The Solar Surfer**

* * *

Arno peeled off his clothes with a soft hiss, while the doe-eyed maid filled the copper tub with steaming hot water. "Lovely," he grumbled as he looked at yet another cut on his torso. He dabbed at it, light and hesitant, with an already blood spotted rag. His most recent mission had done no favors to his body.

"Your bath is ready Mousier Dorian," the maid muttered, holding the empty pitcher in her hands. "Is there anything else I can get you?"

"No," Arno said, looking up at her briefly. "I'll be fine, thank you." He traced a scar on his body, watching the maid leave via the mirror. He sighed, walked to the tub and finished undressing before getting into the hot water. He hissed as he slipped into the warm liquid, groaning as his wounds met the heat, ultimately sighing in contentment, the warmth soothing the ache in his muscles; the flowery scented bubbles coming up to his neck. He tugged the ribbon that bound his hair free.

He stared at the ribbon, old and frayed. Once a red the same shade as fresh blood. Élise had given it to him when he was thirteen, an impish grin on her face as she told him he needed to keep the hair out of his face. The color was no longer as brilliant at it had been then all those years ago; yet he still wore it. He slipped beneath the water, running his hands through his hair a few times, to dislodge the dirt and whatever else was in it. He popped up again with a gasp, grabbed the soap and worked up a good lather before washing his hair. Once that was done, he washed the rest of his body.

Arno finished washing his feet when he felt two hands slip over his eyes. He froze, swallowing and thinking of how to get out of this trap. He twisted the washrag around both hands, pulling it taunt. An ineffective garrote but it'll serve in a pinch. "I'll give you three guesses as to who I am?" the voice said, the speaker's lips brushing his ear.

 _Ah, I know that voice,_ Arno thought. "And if I fail to guess who you are within those three guess?"

"Well, I'll just have to leave and you'll be wondering who was here."

"Are you Marie Antoinette?" Arno asked.

"No," the speaker said, tapping his nose with her fingers, "guess one. You have two more."

"The Queen of England?" Arno asked, a cocksure smirk on his face.

"Good heavens, no," the speaker laughed, "but I am queen of something. perhaps your heart?"

Arno chuckled. "There is only one queen of my heart," he reached up and pulled one hand away. "She's beautiful," he kissed a finger, "fiery," another finger kissed, "fearless," another finger, "graceful," he kissed her index finger, "and stubborn. By God is she stubborn." He kissed her thumb before slipping it into his mouth and sucking on it. He heard the speak gasp, his name escaping her lips. He pulled her thumb out of his name.

"Say my name," the speaker whispered. "If you know me so well."

"Élise de la Serre," Arno said, pulling the other hand away and leaning his head back. "If I'm not mistaken." Élise smiled. "How did you get in here?"

"I followed you," Élise replied, running her hands along his face before kissing him. Arno made a little content sound in his throat. Élise pulled away, though their noses still touched. "You aren't the only one that can climb buildings."

"A woman after my own heart," Arno chuckled.

"Hm, I might have to meet her and tell her you are already spoken for," Élise teased, tapping Arno on the nose. "Though I thought that maid would never leave."

"She's harmless," Arno assured Élise, "she has a crush on me."

"Do I have competition?" Élise arched a brow.

"No, never," Arno said, cupping Élise's face, his thumb gracing her cheekbone. "There is no other woman I would want but you."

Élise smiled. "You sure are charming," she said, "sit up. I'll wash your back."

"Alright." Arno shifted, sitting up and leaning forward. He handed Élise the washrag. "So, you followed me? How did you mange that?"

"It wasn't easy," Élise said, rubbing the soap into the rag before applying it to Arno's back. "I lost track of you several times since you took to the rooftops."

"I thought someone was following me," he said, "turns out I was right." He turned, a smile on his face and he pressed his lips against hers. Élise giggled, and pressed her hand against his shoulder turning him around. They lapsed into a comfortable silence.

"How did you get all these scars?" she asked, tracing one that ran diagonally across his spine. Arno gave a little shuddering gasp, arching at her touch.

"Bellec is a rather… harsh teacher," Arno whispered. "And Templars aren't so fond of Assassins."

"Oh, my poor Arno," Élise murmured, before leaning in and kissing the scar. Arno gasped louder. "And here's another one," she said, tracing it before pressing her lips against it. Arno groaned softly. He heard the slosh of water and the roughness of the cloth across his back. Then Élise's light fingers across yet another scar. She didn't say anything, her lips brushing against the scar. She kissed every scar she found on his back, sometimes muttering, sometimes not.

He couldn't stand it any longer. He twisted around, grabbed her by her biceps and pulled her into the tub, laughing as she yelped in surprised and sputtered, wiping the bubbles away from her face. She sitting on her knees between her legs. "Arno!" she screeched, as he laughed pulling her onto his chest.

"Let me help you out of those wet clothes," he murmured against her ear, pecking her lobe. His fingers were already working on freeing the laces, teasing the soft skin beneath. Élise gasped, hips pressing down against his. He smirked.

"The only reason," Élise said tightly, "that my clothes are wet to begin with is because you pulled me into the tub!"

"I wanted to kiss you properly," Arno said, cupping her cheek and kissing her. "I couldn't do that with you behind me, now could I?" A smirk spread across his lips. "Soap bubbles were in the way."

"You just want to have sex," Élise said, a glint in her eyes that told Arno she wasn't oppose to the idea.

"I never said that, _mon cher_ ," Arno said, "but I'm not excluding the possibility." He smiled and resumed attempting to tug her stays free. Élise laughed, splashing him lightly.

"Well," she said with a huff, "it's a good thing neither of us is spoken for," she looped her arms around Arno's neck, breasts pressing up against his chest, "otherwise I fear it would have gotten rather _Shakespearean_ in Paris."

Arno chuckled, hands finally finding a way beneath her clothes to feel the soft skin beneath. "It could," Arno said, pecking her lips. "The Templars and the Assassins are very much like the Montagues and the Capulets. A Templar and an Assassin being bound in holy matrimony, unheard of and scandalous."

"What about Maria Thorpe and Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad?" Élise asked.

"You know Assassin history?" Arno quirked a brow.

"I know _Templar_ history. Maria Thorpe was once a Templar. The right hand man of Robert de Sablé, before he died and his successor was rather sexist towards her. Altaïr and Sablé's successor ultimately drove her away from the Templars."

"Your loss," Arno said with a little shrug. "Though I'm surprise you know the tale."

"It's a great love story," Élise replied, "a bit like ours."

"I doubt either of us will go down in history of either order because of our love for each other," Arno grumbled.

"I don't know, maybe," Élise replied with a shrug.

"Marry me," Arno whispered.

"Pardon?" Élise asked, sitting up. She stared, wide-eyed at him. "Arno what did you just say?"

"Marry me," Arno repeated, he wriggled, putting his elbows on rim of the tub and sitting up a bit straighter. "I'm serious Élise, marry me."

"What about the Revolution? My father's killer?" Élise asked.

"The Revolution will still be raging and I won't rest until your father's killer is found and dealt with," he grabbed her hands, "you have my word, Élise. Don't you trust me? I am still the same Arno, you remember."

"Of course you are," Élise said, brushing some hair out of Arno's face. "And I do trust you."

"Then what is your answer?" Arno asked, a hopeful look in his eyes. Élise sighed, tsking softly.

"How could I say no to that face?" she cupped Arno's face and jiggled it in her hands, laughing as he rolled his eyes. "Yes, Arno, of course I'll marry you. I'll have no one else for a husband."

"Good," Arno said, pulling his face out of her hands and before pulling her close. "I'll have no one else for a wife." He kissed, slipping his tongue between her lips and grinning when she moaned softly. "Now," he said, pulling away, "all we have to do is keep this from the Assassin Council. Otherwise Bellec will have a fit if he found out his precious protégé was marrying a Templar."

"Bellec," Élise said, tapping Arno's nose. "Can kiss my pretty little ass."

Arno laughed. "Well he can't," he said with a grin, "because _I'll_ be kissing it." Élise laughed, slapping him playfully across the shoulder.

"Oh, Arno," she said, "save it for the wedding night."

"Speaking of wedding nights," Arno said, rubbing her hips, "how are we going to do this without tipping of either the Assassins _or_ the Templars?"

"Are you suggesting we elope?" Élise asked, incredulous, a brow arching in her surprise.

"That is exactly what I'm suggesting _mon cher_ ," Arno replied. "We could go to Vienna."

"Vienna?" Élise said, "a most intriguing proposition."

"I run the risk of seeing my mother, though…"

"Your mother?" Élise perked up, "You never speak of her. Why?"

Arno looked away, brushing some hair out of his face. The candles around the tub became rather interesting. He stared at the melting wax for several long moments until Élise touched his cheek, drawing his attention back to her. "My mother lest when I was a boy. She… couldn't handle my father being an Assassin. After his death your father contacted her, but she refused to take me in, so I was remained with your father."

"Oh how horrid!" Élise gasped, a frown creasing her face.

"I've come to peace with it," Arno said.

"No! She's a horrid woman, Arno!" Élise insisted, cupping his face. "If only she knew what a wonderful son you are, and the man you've become."

"Élise," Arno muttered, looking at anything but her. "Thank you. Thank you so much." Élise smiled, tilting his chin up so he could look at her.

"I only speak the truth, you are a good man, Arno. Any mother would proud to have you as her son."

Arno kissed Élise then, sinking back into the tub. Water sloshed on either side of the tub, splashing onto the floor. They pulled apart and Arno ran his fingers throat Élise's curly red hair. "My mother didn't like the fact my father was an assassin."

"Oh well," Élise said, "it's not a life for every woman." She traced the scar on his face, a parting gift from a rifle's butt, "being the wife of an assassin that is. I like to think true love knows no bounds."

"I think theirs was a marriage of convenience, no actual love between them." Arno muttered, "Not like us."

A knock sounded on the door. Élise squeaked, vaulting herself over the side of the tub and landing on her bottom with at thump. "Élise?" Arno asked, leaning over the side to look at her.

"Mousier Dorian? Mousier Dorian, is the water getting cold?" the doe-eyed maid called.

"Get rid of her!" Élise hissed, hugging her knees to her chest, she realized her stays were untied then, gave an indigent huff and began to lace them back up. "Hurry Arno, before both of our reputations are sullied!"

"Mousier Dorian, is everything alright? I heard something…"

"Everything is fine!" Arno called. "The water is pleasantly warm, I don't need anything."

"Are you sure? I could get you a glass of water," the maid called.

Élise rolled her eyes. "Oh please, can she be any less obvious about wanting to see you na—"

" _Élise!_ " Arno hissed as the door cracked open and the maid pressed her eye against the crack.

"Mousier Dorian?"

"Go now or Madame Charlotte will hear about this!" Arno snapped. The maid squeak, muttering a hasty _oui mousier!_ before she closed the door with a soft snick. Arno waited delved into his senses, watching her glowing blue aura slip around the corner and down the stairs. "Well that was a close one."

"A little too close," Élise said, shifting to rest her weight on her knees, arms slung over the rim of the tub. "She wanted to catch a peek at _my_ fiancé naked. The nerve of her."

Arno flushed. "Élise…"

"Is that a blush I see?" Élise asked, pinching Arno's cheek. He pulled free of her grip, patting his abused cheek.

"You know me, Élise. Fierce assassin. I don't blush."

"Ah," Élise nodded, "of course not. My eyes must be failing me, because this," she tapped his cheek, "clearly looks like a blush. Unless," Élise mused, tapping her lips, "you aren't as good an assassin as you say you are."

Arno felt his cheeks burn even more. "Élise…"

"Arno."

"Why don't I help you out of those wet clothes now," he said, "the tub is big enough for two."

"I suppose," Élise said, "the silk is already ruined. What is a girl to do?"

"Join her fiancé in the tub or the bed. I'm sure I can sneak you to the bed."

"The tub is a novel but the bed is a tried and true concept."

"Then I'm afraid we are at an impasse."

"Indeed."

"The bed is very nice. It's a feather bed, goose feather I am told."

"Oh, expensive. Shall we do both?" Élise asked, dipping her hand into the water, fingers brushing against Arno's thigh. "Though the water is rather tepid."

"Best do it quick then," Arno said, grabbing her hand and tugging her towards him. "Before the water becomes too cold."

"Or," Élise said, wiggling her hand free, "we can go to the bed. I heard goose feathers are rather plush."

"To the bed then," Arno said, grabbing a towel, he stood, wrapping the towel around his waist. Élise laughed, tugging free her stays as she sashayed towards the bed. Arno slipped out of the tub, grinning like a fool.

He grabbed the old, frayed, yet sturdy ribbon.

* * *

 **Aaaah… a tumblr conversation morphed into this. Be prepared FFN/AO3 for many more Élise and Arno stories! I love these two. They are adorable. Simply adorable. Also thanks to The Solar Surfer for Elise's dialogue, it was too good not to use. :)**

 **:3**

 **I even have an OC daughter for them in my head. Françoise** **, she has her father's brown hair but mother's eyes. (I think Élise's eyes are blue or green… hafta check my AC art book). The name is the feminine version of Élise's father's name. :)**

 **This may turn into a trilogy of oneshot, or a four some. The next one they get married… and then Élise finds out she's pregnant and the final one will be happy family moments…**

 **Also, Bellec is alive. Fuck the time line! I want him to be the cranky old uncle for little** **Françoise! :D**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo**


	39. Another Pisspot

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Charlotte smirked to herself, pleased that she had once again given that bumbling butler the slip. "Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Good heavens, child where are you!" the butler called. Charlotte giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth to mute the sound. She watched as the pompously dressed fool trotted pass her hiding spot. "Mademoiselle!" he shrilled. Charlotte waited until the man vanished from sight. She closed her eyes, delving deep into her senses the way her father taught her, smiling as she watched the butler's glowing blue aura vanish around the corner and back into the house.

Charlotte opened her eyes, grinning and spun around. She had never been to this part of the grounds. It was strictly off limits when her parents weren't home. She was confined to the gardens and under the watchful eye of that annoying butler and the head maid. This time though, she had managed to give both of them the slip. Charlotte rounded the corner, and nearly ran into a boy. Charlotte hiked up her skirts and side stepped in one fluid motion. "Seems like those dance lessons Mama insisted I do payed off finally," she said aloud, pleased that she avoided a disaster. She stared up at the doe-eyed boy. "Oh, hello."

"Hello," the boy said, brushing his dirty blond hair out of his grey eyes. He had a splash of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He stared at Charlotte for several long moments, noting her fine dress and done up hair. "You're the girl from the house," the boy said, a note of awe in his voice.

Charlotte smiled. "Indeed," she said. "I am the girl from the house. And you're the… stable boy from the stable." She added, noting his dirty common clothes and shoes.

"I heard them calling for you," the stable boy said. "You must be the Maîtriser and Maîtresse's daughter."

Charlotte smiled. "Do you want to play a game?" she asked, glancing about to make sure none of the servants were watching or that her parents haven't returned. The boy's face fell as he looked at the stables he still had to muck, the stable master was nowhere to be seen. She wondered if her father had fired him.

The boy's face brightened then dimmed. "I would love to," he said, looking away from her. "But I have to muck out those stalls otherwise Maîtriser Geoffroy will be very mad."

A mischievous grin spread across Charlotte's heart shaped face. "Only if Maîtriser Geoffroy catches you, will he be mad." Charlotte could see the gears working in the boy's head, eyes widening in realization that she was right. "It won't be for long."

"Alright," the boy said. He leaned his shovel against the wall and wiped his hands on his trousers. "Lead the way uuh…" the blushed, realizing he had no idea what her name was. Charlotte giggled behind her hands.

"Charlotte," she supplied. The boy flushed again, the pink ending at his hairline.

"I'm Jacques," the boy said. Charlotte smiled, nodding once. "But please, lead the way." Jacques said. Charlotte grinned, and spun on her heel.

"This way," she said, hiking up her skirts and heading to the gap in the wall. She peeked around it, Jacques behind her. She smiled, making sure nobody spotted them and that the butler was gone. She was about to tell Jacques the cost was clear when the last person she wanted to see appeared. "Oh God," Charlotte hissed.

"What? What is it?" Jacques asked.

"It's Uncle Bellec," Charlotte sighed, "Mama calls him a narrow-minded fool that can't see pass his own nose." She stared at Jacques who looked at her wide eyed. "Mama says it's true, though."

"What… how are we going to escape?" Jacques asked, watching as Bellec walked up to the door and knocked. Charlotte grinned, and spotted a cart full of hay nearby.

"We hide in there until Uncle Bellec is gone," Charlotte said, pointing to the cart. She heard the butler greet Bellec and the old man walked in, the door closing behind him. "Now," Charlotte hissed, grabbing Jacques's hand and running towards the hay cart. She boosted him into the sweet smelling dried grass before she climbed in herself. She heard Jacques grunt as her elbow landed in his gut. Charlotte squirmed until she could peek out of the hay. They stayed there for five minutes, just to make sure Bellec didn't come out.

"You've done this before… haven't you?" Jacques asked. Charlotte glanced at the boy, gave an ambiguous smile before glancing about again.

"Let's go now, if we wait any longer Uncle Bellec will come out and we'll lose our chance," Charlotte hissed, before slipping out of the hay cart.

"H-hey, wait!" Jacques called, tumbling out of the hay cart after Charlotte. The young girl looked at him, sighing with exasperation.

"You need to learn to be sneakier," Charlotte said, helping Jacques to his feet. He thanked her, brushing the dirt off of him. "Now, this way." Charlotte dragged him into the crowd of people and into the heart of Paris.

* * *

Charlotte giggled as Jacques stared wide-eyed at the bustling crowds of Paris. "You never left the grounds have you?" she asked, side stepping a puddle with ease.

"No," Jacques said. "Never. Well, not since I came to be your stable boy, I haven't. Maîtriser Geoffroy found me in an orphanage after he told your father he needed a stable boy to help him. I don't remember much from my time in the orphanage though."

"You're from an orphanage," Charlotte's eyes grew wide, "amazing. I've never met a real orphan before. Papa says orphans are grimy, but I should give them a franc because everyone deserves a chance."

"Your father sounds like a good man," Jacques said.

"He is," Charlotte agreed, glancing up at the sky, then around at the people. The smells of Paris always fascinated her. The unwashed bodies of the common folk, the scent of decay from the butchers and the fresh baked bread from the bakeries. She wished her parents took her out more, instead of keeping her cooped up in the house. "I only wish he and Mama weren't always so busy."

"What keeps them so busy?"

"They won't tell me," Charlotte huffed, puffing her cheeks out. "I'm ten and they won't tell me! I'm old enough to know."

Jacques didn't know how to reply to that. He bit his lip, eyeing Charlotte with something akin to mystic awe. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't see the oncoming carriage. "Charlotte!" Jacques shouted, grabbing her by her shoulders and pulling her out of the way. They fell into some crates, the wood snapping beneath their weight. A chicken squawked in indignation, wings flapping as it tried to get away quickly. Jacques stared at Charlotte, her green eyes bright and felt a blush color his cheeks when he realized the tips of their noses were touching. He scrambled off of her. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry Mademoiselle Charlotte!"

"Thank you," Charlotte said, a smile spreading across her face. "You saved me." She stood up, and brushed herself off.

"I just…" Jacques mumbled, trailing off. "What game are we going to play?" he asked. Charlotte grinned.

"It's not really a game," she said, glancing about at the people that passed by. " _You_ are gonna pick someone's pocket."

"What? I'm not a thief!" Jacques protested.

"You are only a thief if you are caught," Charlotte said, "Papa said so. Now, watch me, it's rather simple." Charlotte slipped into the crowd, hiding in plain sight. Jacques watched her as she stalked her target, a plump woman in an overly frilly dress. She slipped her hand between the bodice of the dress and the skirt and extracted it before the woman even noticed that she was being robbed. Charlotte slipped out of the crowd and into another one, before reappearing besides Jacques. She held up two francs. "See, it's easy. Now you try."

"How did you do that?" Jacques whispered. Charlotte gave a coy smile and slipped the two coins into her coin pouch. "Who taught you how to do that?"

"Papa, now go. Your turn." She made shooing motions with her hands and Jacques slipped into the crowd. Charlotte watched him, he didn't hide as well as she could and kept bumping into people, mumbling apologies. Finally, he was able to get one target and was about to pick their pocket when Charlotte heard a familiar voice.

"…I don't know Arno; do you think she'll—"

"Jacques!" Charlotte hissed, spotting her parents. She couldn't see what they were discussing but she knew if they spotted her, she'll be in serious trouble. She had to get home. The boy left his target and came up to her.

"I almost had it," he complained.

"No time, we need to get home!" Charlotte hissed, grabbing his wrist and tugging him into the crowd. She glanced over her shoulder, to make sure her parents haven't spotted her yet. It was then her father looked up, and as if he already knew she was there, looked right at her. Charlotte swallowed and slipped into the crowd.

* * *

It was a mad dash back home, Charlotte ended up losing Jacques in the crowd and had no time to go back and look for him. He eventually found her on the road to the house. She shoved him towards the stables once they neared the house. "Don't tell anyone anything," she told him as she gave him the shove. Jacques stared at her, before going to where he left his shovel.

Charlotte dusted off her skirts, glancing behind her to make sure there was no mud. She glanced around once again to make sure nobody was going to see her before entering the house. The main hall was empty, a vase atop a beautiful mahogany table beneath the large mirror and the plush red runner where they only things she saw. She breathed a sigh of relief she had beat her parents home.

Charlotte grabbed her skirts, she wished her mother let her wear trousers more often, before going up the stairs. The house was quiet; she had done it again. She managed to give everyone the slip and sneak back without anyone being any wiser. Standing a bit straighter with her shoulders thrown back a little. She slipped into one of the parlor rooms, closed the door behind her only to turn and gasped. Her mother was sitting there are the table, tapping her fingernails upon it. Charlotte swallowed.

"Charlotte Françoise," Élise said. Charlotte glanced about, spotting her father inspecting a glass bobble on the mantle of the fire place.

"Mama, Papa," Charlotte said, forcing a smile and lacing her fingers behind her back. "What a… pleasant surprise!"

"Where were you this afternoon?" Arno asked, setting the bobble down on the mantle. He turned to face his daughter, arms folded over his chest. Charlotte opened her mouth to speak. "And don't lie," Arno added, "I saw you in the market earlier."

Charlotte felt her cheeks burn with mortification. "Sorry Mama, Papa…" she mumbled, looking at her feet. "I was bored and the butler is so easy to sneak away from," Charlotte sighed. "I didn't hurt anyone."

"That's not the point," Élise said, "the point, Charlotte, is that you are our daughter and your father and I have a lot of enemies that would like to hurt us by hurting you."

"We only ask that you stay in the house because we love you," Arno said, walking up to his daughter and putting a hand on her head.

"How can I make sure nobody hurts me if I don't know who to look for? Why won't you tell me anything, I'm ten-years-old, aren't I old enough to know?" Charlotte asked, looking between her parents. Arno sighed, rubbing his face, while Élise looked away.

"Charlotte, sweetling," Élise began, but stopped when she heard raised voices coming from the hall.

"Arno!" a coarse voice hollered and the door burst open. Bellec stood in the doorway, holding Jacques by the back of his shirt. He tossed the frightened stable boy at Arno's feet. "I saw this boy sneaking around back," Bellec said. "Could be a spy."

"I… I…" Jacques swallowed as he stared up at Arno, "I just wanted to say th-thank you to… Mademoiselle Charlotte…" he mumbled looking at the floor.

"Papa, no," Charlotte shouted, rushing to Jacques side and putting herself between the boy and her father. "His name is Jacques and he's my friend," Charlotte smiled at Jacques, "he saved my life." Charlotte watched as her parents' eyes widen, and sly smiles spread across their faces.

"Well, we should do something nice for the boy, Arno," Élise said, "he did save our daughter's life."

"Indeed, what should we do?" Arno mused, tapping his lips, his eyes settled on Bellec. The old man scowled.

"No, I'm not doing it Arno," Bellec seethed, "I'm not training another pisspot."

* * *

 **Introducing Charlotte Françoise Dorian, the impish and beautiful daughter of Arno and Élise. As well as her side kick Jacques.**

 **This is sorta the squeal to the fic I posted last night, but not directly. They'll probably be more adventures of Charlotte and Jacques.**

 **I also plan to continue A Most Intriguing Proposition as well. We have to visit Vienna, Arno needs to react to the news he's going to be a daddy, Arno needs to hold his little girl for the first time…**

 **And I need to write HayZiio and a birthday fic for a friend.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo**


	40. Shadows in the Night

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Connor didn't think when he heard the screams of the children. He rushed towards them, scrambling up into the tree to avoid being bogged down in the snow. He spotted them, pressed up against a large rock, the angry brown bear roaring at them. Connor assessed the situation, noting that the boy was protecting his two sisters. Connor flicked out his wrist blade, swiveling it to wield it as a knife, pulled free his tomahawk and with a savage war cry, Connor leapt down between the children and the bear.

The animal spooked, taking a step back, before roaring and swiping at Connor who ducked. "Run!" he shouted to the three children, using his tomahawk to block a swipe from the bear.

"Are you…" the boy began, but stopped when the bear roared again and his sisters squealed in terror. Connor was getting annoyed with the children for not running when he told them. He blocked another swipe from the bear and rushed in, stabbing it in the chest. He fought bears before and they were difficult to bring down. The bear roared in pain and anger. Connor rolled away, exposing the children.

"No!" Connor shouted, slashing the bear with his tomahawk. The sudden pain drew the animal's attention back to him. "Run! Run now!" he shouted to the children. The bear swiped at him again before lunging and snapping its jaws. Connor ducked out of the way; the youngest girl squeaked in fear. The bear looked in her direction. "Go!" Connor shouted. The children finally left and Connor made the mistake in watching them flee, thus he failed to notice the bear's incoming swipe.

It was a sharp pain, the bears claws slicing through his robes and flesh. Hot blood gushed and oozed down his side and Connor went flying, tumbling down the slope, leaving a trail of red in his wake. Connor thudded against a tree trunk, grunting in pain. He knew he had a few crack ribs; bears hit hard. Connor sheathed his swivel hidden blade and his tomahawk. He flexed his ankles, they weren't broken. Slowly, he got to his feet, only to gasp in pain, hand going to his wound. "Shelter," Connor whispered, looking about trying to find which way lay Boston. He picked a point and began to walk in that direction.

* * *

Haytham stopped when he saw the prone body lying in the snow. It took him a moment to spot the deep blue on the hem of the white robes, but once seen he couldn't mistake them for anything other than assassin robes… his _son's_ assassin robes.

Haytham spurred his horse towards Connor's body, before dismounting in a heap. Ever since learning of Ziio's death, he's been… concerned, for Connor's well-being. He disliked how the boy always pushed himself, and he wanted to remind Connor several times that he needed to rest. He felt it wasn't his place to chide Connor, considering he hadn't been in his son's life for twenty years.

Haytham rolled Connor over onto his back and pressed his ear against the boy's face, there was a faint whisper of breath. Connor was still alive, but he felt cold and there was a large telling red stain on his side. "Dear God," Haytham muttered, wondering what exactly his son had been up to. He wormed his arms beneath Connor's shoulders and legs and tried to stand. His eyes bugged out in surprise at Connor's weight, and it took him several attempts before he was able to get onto his feet. He staggered backward, taking a step back, finding a patch of well packed snow and slid back a bit further. "My back!" Haytham cried out, when his back tweaked in a manner that it wasn't supposed to.

Staggering, Haytham flopped Connor over the shoulders of his horse like a sack of potatoes. He stretched his back out, he was getting too old for this, before mounting up and riding into the nearby frontier town. Once there, finding an inn with a spare room was easy enough, money wasn't an issue and giving the innkeeper a few more to keep his mouth shut and his eyes adverted was an easy price for Haytham to pay. The innkeeper even pointed Haytham in the direction of a doctor. Haytham thanked the man, even shocked when the innkeeper told his son to help Haytham get the wounded and unconscious Connor off the horse and into the room. Haytham left the young man to the task and went in search of the doctor.

* * *

Connor slowly open his eyes, greeted by the single flame of a candle and the comfort of a mattress. He wasn't fully dressed and there were crisp white bandages around his torso. His hidden blades were removed and he suddenly felt extremely vulnerable. He was the only one in the room. Connor sat up slowly, trying to remember what happened after the bear attack. He remembered walking towards Boston, or at least he thought it was Boston, then he fell in the snow and passed out.

Connor looked about the room, wondering how he got here. His robes and shirt where on a chair while the other chair held a familiar coat, it's companion tricorn resting on the table nearby. Connor ground his teeth, before standing, hand going to the wound. He crossed over to the chair with his clothes and found his wrist blades, slipping them on as the door opened. He flicked his wrist blades free.

Haytham walked in, looking smaller without his coat. Connor tensed at the sight of his father. "What are you doing out of bed?" Haytham hissed, setting the tray of food on the table. He walked over to Connor, but Connor held his wrists blades, taking a step back. "Is that any way to greet your father? Especially, after he saved your life?" Haytham asked.

Connor lowered his arms, slowly. "You saved my life?" he asked. "Why?"

Haytham didn't answer that. Instead he turned and went back to the little table before sitting down. "I brought you some stew, eat it before it gets cold." Connor watched Haytham for a few moments, before sheathing his wrist blades and pulling on his shirt. He went to the bed and sat down, accepting the bowl of stew but not touching it. "I didn't poison it," Haytham added curtly, when he noticed Connor wasn't eating.

"You have not answered my question… Father," Connor said. It sounded strange to call this man father, when for so long he felt like he never had one. Even Achilles didn't really count, though he was closer to being a father than Haytham Kenway ever would be, yet…

Yet, Connor still felt a tug of kinship towards this man, Templar Grand Master or not. He poked at his stew before eating it, content to let his father keep his silence. "How did you manage to injure yourself, though?" Haytham asked, not liking the pregnant silence. Connor looked up and then gave a little shrug.

"I saw some children cornered by an angry bear. I fought the bear, allowing them to escape. I made the mistake of taking my eyes off the animal, and its attack connected," Connor said. He hoped the children managed to make it home okay.

"A bear," Haytham muttered, "your mother saved me from a bear once." Connor sucked in a breath, a bit of carrot going down his throat too quickly. He coughed violently for a few moments, feeling his father's eyes on him. "Are you alright?" Haytham asked. Connor gasped for breath, nodding. "Good."

"My mother saved you from a bear?" he asked, he never heard his mother tell this story. Then again, she rarely spoke of his father. She'd always get a sad look on her face whenever he asked. "She never told me."

"She didn't? I figured she would, it was one of our more… amusing adventurers," Haytham said, smiling fondly as he recalled the memory. "I was gathering wood for the fire when I wandered too far from camp and stumbled upon a bear. I ran, forgetting myself, and… slipped and fell. Your mother came and drove the bear off before helping me up." Haytham said, his cheeks tinting pink a little bit.

"I see," Connor said, trying to imagine his father, who he never took for a coward, running from a bear.

"Did she… did she ever talk to you about me?" Haytham asked, sounding a bit hesitant. He pushed the food around in his bowl.

"No," Connor muttered, "there was this one time when I built a snowman and said it was my father. She brought a tricorn hat and put it on the snowman, then said it was my father. We played together with it, but _Ista_ … Mother, seemed sad. The spring before she died, there was some white men passing by the village, she went to go see and came back dejected. When I asked why she was sad she kissed my forehead and smoothed my hair."

"She was looking for me?" Haytham asked. "She missed me?" Connor nodded. Haytham blinked, looking away, unable to look at Connor's face. It looked too much like Ziio. "I should've realized it sooner," Haytham muttered.

"Realized what?" Connor asked. Haytham didn't answer, he simply gave Connor a sad, lonely smile.

"I saved you," Haytham said, changing the subject, "because you are my son. Think what you want of me, but I'm not completely heartless. I would never let my own child die from exsanguination in the snow."

"You are still a Templar."

"And _you're_ an assassin," Haytham said, "yet _I_ can look past that trivial detail and see you for what you truly are, my son. Obviously you can't see past it and only see me as your enemy."

Connor hunched his shoulders, defensive. He opened his mouth to reply but closed it, realizing that his father's words had a grain of truth to them. "I do not."

"You were ready to gut me when I came in."

"I did not know what was going on, I thought I had been captured."

"Oh, please," Haytham said with an eye roll, "any fool could comprehend what was going on. Has Achilles truly blinded you so thoroughly that you can't even see pass our different alliances and see me as your father?"

"Father, I…"

"You are my son, and it means something… to me," Haytham said. "Now," Haytham stood up and pulled on his coat, "get some rest, I'll be back to check on you in the morning."

"Father," Connor called out as Haytham opened the door. "Stay," Connor said.

"Stay? You want me to stay?"

"Yes," Connor said, "stay and tell me about my mother. How did you meet her? Did you love her?"

Haytham sighed, unable to look at his child. "Of course I did son," he whispered, "I loved her with all my heart. She was my greatest treasure, more valuable than any precursor sight in the world, and I let her slip through my fingers because I was too blind to see the truth." Haytham closed the door and took his coat off again. He sat back down and rested his elbows on his knees, looking at his son as he clasped his hands. Haytham said, "Let me tell you about your mother."

* * *

 **Happy birthday MohawkWoman!**

 **I hope you enjoy this and had a good birthday!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **nemo**


	41. Little Miss Misadventure

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Charlotte walked up to her parents' room, watching her father place clothes in a trunk. Tentatively, she knocked on the ajar door before slipping inside. "Uhm… Papa," the ten-year-old ask, chewing her lip in a nervous manner. "Papa," Charlotte called again. Arno set the last shirt into the trunk before turning around.

"Charlotte," he said, an easy smile spreading across his face as the young girl rushed into his arms, hugging him tightly. "What are you doing out of bed? It's late. You should be sleeping."

"Where are you going? Are you and Mama going somewhere?" Charlotte asked.

"We're going to Versailles, Napoleon has invited us to attend a gala," Arno said.

"A gala?" Charlotte's eyes lit up and the thought of a gala. "What's a gala, Papa?"

"It's a grand party, it's to celebrate France's recent victory in the war. There'll be feasting and dancing and music, all sorts of grand things."

"Really?" Charlotte could see the glitz and glitter of the grand ball room at the palace in Versailles. The women in the shimmering gowns and the men with their polished buttons and buckles. "Can I come?" she asked, a hopeful look in her eye.

"No," Arno said, straightening. He placed a hand on his daughter's head. "You are to stay here with Uncle Bellec."

Charlotte's face fell. "But that's not fair! I wanna go! I'll be good."

"No, Charlotte, it's too dangerous," Arno said. "You will be safe here and besides you have Jacques to play with."

"He can come, too! He is my protector."

"Jacques needs to stay here and learn how to protect," Arno countered.

"Please, let me go with you and Mama!" Charlotte begged. "I'm ten and I have never left Paris!"

"Charlie, what are you doing up?" Élise asked. Charlotte turned to her mother a hopeful look in her eye.

"Mama, I wanna go to the gala you and Papa are going to," Charlotte said. "Please, can I come, I'll be good!"

"Charlotte," Élise said, beckoning her daughter over. Charlotte trotted up to her mother, hugging her around the waist. Élise stroked her daughter's hair before patting her on the back. "To bed dear," Élise said. "You know you aren't supposed to be up this late."

"But Mama—"

"No buts, bed," Élise said. Charlotte pouted, glared once at her father before leaving the room. Élise closed the door. "Why can't she go?" Élise asked, staring at the gilded door handle.

"You know why Élise," Arno sighed, walking up to his wife. "There are people that would love to see us dead or hurt, and if they know about Charlotte, they can get to use through her."

"Germain's dead," Élise pointed out.

"Yet, there are still people that think like him," Arno whispered, taking Élise by her shoulders and turning her around. "Just because you have stabilized the Templar Order now doesn't mean there aren't snakes within it."

"Same can be said about the Brotherhood."

"I never denied that," Arno said. "I still don't want her coming with us."

"It's not like we have Templar or Assassins matters to attend to in Versailles. It's just a gala for Napoleon. You know he dotes on her."

"What if something happens, Élise? What if she's kidnapped or murdered?" Arno asked. "I don't want to risk it."

"The chances of her getting killed or kidnaped in Paris, with us gone is far greater than if she came with us," Élise said. Arno opened his mouth to protect. "Bellec is old. He can't keep up with her like he used to, especially if she and Jacques get into any sort of mischief. And you know she'll get into mischief," Élise said, tapping Arno on the nose. "She's like us."

"So are you suggesting we bring her?" Arno asked, knowing he had lost the argument. Élise smiled. Arno sighed. "Charlotte, Charlotte get in here," Arno called, knowing their daughter was right outside the door. The door opened and Charlotte slipped in, dark curls framing her face. She stared at her feet until her mother cleared her throat.

"Yes, Mama, Papa?" Charlotte asked, looking up at her parents.

"Your mother and I have decided that you may come with us to Versailles," Arno said. Charlotte's face lit up. "But you must promise to behave when we go, and Jacques is staying here."

"Alright, Papa, alright," Charlotte said, not wanting to hear about the rules her father was laying down. "I'll be good, I promise!"

"The servants will pack up your things tomorrow, we'll leave in the afternoon," Élise said. "Now you must go to bed, _mon petit ange_."

"Alright, Mama!" Charlotte giggled, hugging her parents and allowing them to kiss her cheeks. She bid them good night before going off to bed.

* * *

Charlotte decided that she didn't like the dress. It was a pale lilac that brought out her eyes, with seed pearls studding the bodice, lace on the sleeves and frills on the hem. Her hair was coiffured, a few curls stylishly teased out to drape around her shoulders and frame her heart shaped face. Her hair was caught in a net of spun silver with tiny little diamonds. Her mother said it cost a fortune. She hated sitting still for the servant to paint her lips and apply some shadow to her eyelids and blush to her cheeks.

Charlotte didn't understand why she had to suffer through all this nonsense just to be shepherd off with the other palace children to a smaller ballroom while the adults danced the night away. She would protest, but she promised her parents she'd be on her best behavior. Still, Charlotte had to ask, so she did.

"You'll first be meeting Napoleon with your father and I," Élise said.

"Napoleon? Have I met him before?" Charlotte asked, playing with a loose curl. Élise grabbed her daughter's hand and clasped a fire opal bracelet to her slim wrist.

"Once, but you were still a babe in arms."

"Oh," Charlotte said, admiring the bracelet. "Mama?"

"Hm?" Élise slipped a simple golden chain with a tear shaped diamond around her daughter's neck.

"What's the Creed and the Templar Order?" Charlotte asked. Her mother still fore two heartbeats before looking her over.

"And where did you here such things?" Élise asked, tugging at her daughter's skirt. She made a sound, approving of the dress before straightening and look herself over in the mirror, around her throat was a Templar cross pendent. At a glance, anyone would think she was a god fearing woman, only those of the Order would recognize for what it truly was.

"During the carriage ride," Charlotte said, "I woke up from my nap, but pretended to be asleep and I heard you and Papa talking," Charlotte looked away, "Sorry."

"It's alright," Élise said, "The Creed and the Templar Order are something you don't need to worry about. It's something that your father and I must worry about, so put it out of your mind."

"But Mama," Charlotte began.

"No." Élise shot her daughter a glare. Charlotte pouted but glanced at her shoulder when she heard a knock on the door.

"Élise?" Arno asked, opening the door slowly. "Aah, Élise you look stunning," his eyes fell on Charlotte. "And Charlotte, you look beautiful."

Charlotte beamed. "Thank you Papa."

"Élise, you two ready?" Arno asked. "The gala is about to start."

"Yes, we're ready," Élise said. "Come Charlotte, and remember to be on your best behavior."

"Yes, Mama," Charlotte sighed, falling behind her parents. She decided she didn't like the shoes either, since they pinched her feet. She glanced around, admiring the paintings hung on the walls and the suits of armor that guarded the halls. They reached a small antechamber, and fell behind two groups of people waiting to be announced. Charlotte grabbed her mother's hand as she stared at the people in their fancy suits of silk and gowns of satin. Her eyes fell upon a boy, a little older than she. His suit was dark blue, buckles and buttons polished silver and there was a bunch of snow white lace beneath his chin. His black hair was tied at his nape with a red ribbon.

The boy must've felt her eyes on her for he turned to look at her, and Charlotte sucked in a breath. His eyes were an intense pale blue, like a clear winter sky. The boy's father bowed to her mother. "Madame Grand Master," the man said, Charlotte glanced up at him.

"Jean-Marie," Élise said, "I'm surprised to see you here..."

Charlotte watched as her father shifted closer to her mother, the boy on the other hand remained where he was, watching his father. Charlotte went up to the boy. "Hello," she said, smoothing down her dress.

"Hello," the boy replied, bowing a little to her. "It seems your father isn't too happy that my father is speaking to your mother."

"Oh, no," Charlotte said, "Papa is… cautious."

"Ah, I see," the boy said, glancing over as the group ahead of him was announced. "I'll see you on the ballroom floor, mademoiselle." He gave her a little wave before falling in step with his father. They vanished through the thick red velvet curtain, the herald calling out their names.

"Charlotte," Élise hissed. Charlotte trotted over to her parents' side, smoothing down her dress.

"Who was that Mama?" Charlotte asked.

"Not know Charlie," Élise hissed, "later."

"Now presenting Mousier Arno Dorian, his wife Madame Élise Dorian, and their daughter Mademoiselle Charlotte Dorian!" the herald announced as Charlotte followed her parents through the thick curtain.

* * *

Charlotte gasped as the glittering sight before her. The chandeliers glowed with a thousand candles, light sparkling off all the gem and jewels the ladies wore and shown off of the polish buttons and buckles on the men's suits. They walked slowly down the carpet, Charlotte watching as highborn ladies hid their faces behind feathery fans and muttered things to each other. The men eyed her, then glanced at her father and thought better of it. Charlotte swallowed nervously at them. They reached the end where Napoleon waited, an easy smile on his lips.

"Arno, Élise! So glad for you to join us," Napoleon said, as they bowed. Charlotte straightened from her curtsy. "And this must be your daughter, Charlotte?"

Charlotte swallowed, wanting to hide behind her parents but Élise pushed her forward. She gulped. "H-Hello, sir," Charlotte said. Napoleon laughed, picked up her hand and kissed it.

"You are a beautiful flower waiting to blossom, my dear," Napoleon said, "you have your mother's beauty and if I'm correct, your father's wit, then you will charm many hearts and break countless more."

Charlotte blushed, looking away shyly. She shot a quick glance to her parents. Her mother smiled though her father seemed to scowl. "Thank you sir," Charlotte said, remembering her manners, "I hope that your predictions come true, but I fear my father may scare off more hearts than I can break or charm."

Napoleon laughed, winking at Arno. "I was right, you _do_ have your father's wit," Napoleon beckoned a servant over. The man came, gave a little bow and offered his hand to Charlotte. "I hope you find the other children not as dull as I'm sure your parents will find the rest of my guests."

"I will," Charlotte said, following the servant and watching her parents fade into the crowd.

Charlotte had to admit the food was good, the punch sweet and the other children mildly amusing, but she still felt out of her element. She spent the majority of her time near the edge, watching the adults twirl and dance in the glitter and the light of the main ball. The older children tried to dance, but none of them had the attention span for it. Charlotte was bored, so she passed the time trying to spot her parents.

"I heard from someone that you managed to make Napoleon laugh," a voice said. Charlotte gave a little gasp, turning to stare at the blue-eyed boy from earlier. "I'm impressed; I didn't think you had it in you. You seemed like a frightened little bird, preferring to hiding behind your mother's skirts."

Charlotte bristled. "If I may be so bold," Charlotte said, a sugary sweet smile on her lips, "it was I that came to you and initiated conversation. So," Charlotte pressed on, "your comment about me being meek and hiding behind my mother's skirts is ill founded and rather insulting. And if rumor serves to be true, I heard that Napoleon didn't spare you so much as a glance. Just another boy trotting after his father like a lost pup."

The boy blinked several times, his pale cheeks turning a rosy pink. "Well, you do have a rather sharp tongue."

"And you seem like the ideal whet stone for me to sharpen it upon."

"I'm Raphaël."

"Charlotte."

Raphaël smiled and gave a little bow. "Pleasure to meet you Mademoiselle Charlotte. I did say I'll meet you on the ball room floor."

"You did," Charlotte agreed glancing at the glittering room beyond the curtain. Raphaël came up to her, eyes falling on the refreshment table.

"Do you think you can do it?" he asked.

"Do what?" Charlotte turned to him.

"Steal one of those fruit tarts," Raphaël said, gesturing to the tarts stacked in a pyramid on the table. Charlotte smirked. She swiped stuff from the cook all the time back home and she could pick a pocket with ease in the busy streets of Paris.

"I'll bring us two," she said, a cocky little smirk on her lips before she slipped out into the crowd.

* * *

"You know, I hate this dance," Arno said when the music brought them together.

"Then why are you dancing it?" Élise asked. "I happen to enjoy it." She twirled when Arno raised their joined hands over his head. "You know you can always sit the next dance out."

"At let the vultures have a go at my beautiful wife?" Arno asked. "Hardly. Especially Jean-Marie."

"My, my, Arno," Élise chided, though there was an acidic bite to her words. "Do I detect jealousy?" The music brought them closer still.

"I thought we didn't have any _other_ business to attend to while in Versailles?" Arno whispered into her ear. "And why are you wearing that pendent?"

"Why are you wearing your wrist blade? And for your information," Élise hissed, "I didn't know Jean-Marie D'Aramitz would be attending!" Élise was glad when the dance finally ended allowing her and Arno to retreat to the edges of the ball room.

"Élise, I didn't mean anything—"

"You meant everything!" Élise hissed. "I didn't know he was attending! He's loyal to me, I trust him. Arno please, I know you love me and I know you are concerned but, don't smoother me. You've been smothering me since Germain died."

"I thought that… that… that artifact _killed you_ Élise," Arno hissed, grabbing his wife by the shoulders. "I told you before your safety is my first priority. Yours and Charlotte's. I thought Germain not only took away my wife but my daughter's mother."

"Arno…" Élise squeezed his hands. "Germain's dead. All those that were loyal to him are either dead or they have fled France."

"All the more—"

"No," Élise said, pressing her fingers to his lips. "No Arno. If you wind yourself too tight worrying about us it is going to have adverse effects. Please Arno, rest." Élise kissed. It was brief kiss for Arno pulled away sooner than she would have liked. "Arno?"

"Charlotte," Arno hissed. Élise felt fear chill her blood.

"What about Charlie?" Élise whispered and Arno gestured with his chin. Élise followed her husband's gaze to Charlotte slipping back into the children's section of the ball. "I wonder who's egging her on?" Élise wondered.

"She promised to be on her best behavior," Arno growled.

"Let her be Arno," Élise whispered. "She probably stole a few apples."

"Yes, but—"

"Arno," Élise said as the music changed to another dance. She grabbed her husband's hand. "Waltz with me," she breathed, dragging him to the dance floor despite his protests.

* * *

 **So….**

 **Yes. Charlotte was conceived in the hot airballoon ride. Germain did hit Élise with the magic glowy sword but it wasn't her heart, it was some non-fatal part.**

 **Basically Élise survived Germain's final attack, she and Arno were already married, and they live with their daughter and are** ** _happy!_**

 **Now, I'm going to play Unity.**

 **Save an author; leave a review**

 **-Nemo**


	42. Letters

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Dedication: Nermallion of Tumblr**

 **Characters: Adewale, Edward Kenway, Haytham Kenway**

* * *

A gull watched as the men milled about on the dock. It rubbed its head along it's feathers before ruffling them. A man set down a barrel. "Alright," he said, turning to the big black man. "Thirty-two barrels of fresh water," he said. "As promised."

Ádewalé stared at the barrels. It looked like thirty-two but something seemed off about the number. "Are ya sure?" he asked.

"Sure I'm sure," the man said. "I counted 'em meself."

"Count them again, in front of me," Ádewalé insisted, he didn't think this man was being honest with him. Water was precious on a ship, more precious than gold in some cases.

"No, ye should trust me. I say there are thirty-two barrels, there are thirty-two barrels," the merchant protested. "Now pay up."

"I am not gonna pay until ya ha'e counted da barrels in front of me," Ádewalé growled. He didn't like being cheated, and he wouldn't allow the Jackdaw being cheated out of her water either. "Now."

"Whatcha gonna do? Ya're nothin' but a damn African. Probably a runaway slave too. I can get the constable down here an' clap ya in irons."

Ádewalé half drew his sword when a hand clapped around his wrist. "Is there a problem, lads?" Edward asked, a smile on his face as he looked between Ádewalé and the merchant.

"This your slave?" the merchant asked, jerking his thumb at Ádewalé. Edward reeled back, letting go of Ádewalé's wrist. He patted the big black man on the shoulder.

"Slave? No," Edward said, walking around Ádewalé to stand on his other side. "He's my quartermaster an' my friend. Now, is there a problem here?"

"This mon is tryin' ta cheat us," Ádewalé said. "I don't think dere is thirty-two barrels."

"I told 'im he's wrong. I counted them meself," the merchant protested. Edward ignored the merchant and quickly counted the barrels.

"There's twenty-two," Edward said. He looked at the merchant. "My quartermaster is right, you shorted us by ten barrels."

"That's a bloody damn lie," the merchant said.

"I counted them myself, there are only twenty-two, now," Edward said, "you can count them for us again to make sure I didn't make a mistake or get the other ten barrels."

"I'm no cheat!"

"Ten barrels short says otherwise," Edward said, smiling. The scar on his cheek distorted when did so. "So, what it'll be?"

"I'll be gettin' those ten barrels," the merchant muttered, walking off while he shouted orders to his men.

"Good job, Áddie," Edward said, patting his quartermaster on the back. He headed up the gangplank, shouting orders to the crew to get the barrels of water on board. "Oh, and Áddie," Edward called, turning to face his quartermaster.

"Yes, Edward?" Ádewalé called up to him.

"Let me count the barrels before hauling them aboard."

"Aye, Cap'n."

* * *

Edward stopped humming when Ádewalé walked up to him that evening. "Áddie," he greeted, "everything alright?"

"About today at port," Ádewalé began.

"No, think nothing of it," Edward said, waving his hand. He adjusted the Jackdaw's course slightly. "Men like that merchant try every way they can to swindle people."

"No, it's… I can't count," Ádewalé whispered, lowering his voice. "Nor read an' write. They don't teach slaves letters an' numbers."

"Oh," Edward said, feeling awkward. "Well… I can… get one of the lettered boys to help ya, y'know, like an assistant."

"No," Ádewalé hissed. "I do not want that. Teach me," he said. "Teach me letters and numbers. I do not want to be taken advantage of just because I don't know letters an' numbers."

"Alright," Edward said, "Me mam was a school teacher, she taught me. I can teach you." He looked about. "Riley! Get up here," Edward called, pointing to a lad. The young man pointed to himself, then scampered up to meet Edward.

"Yes, Cap'n?" he asked.

"Man the helm, Mr. Ádewalé and I will be havin' a moment in my cabin. Don't disturb us," Edward said. Riley stared between Edward and Ádewalé, the boy's eyes were big and around.

"Aye, Cap'n," Riley said, a foolish grin on his face, "take all the time ya need." Edward snorted and led Ádewalé to his cabin. Edward heard the quartermaster close the door as he lit a candle and shuffled around for ink, quill and paper. He pulled out a pencil and handed it to Ádewalé. The black man wrapped his fist around the delicate writing instrument.

"No, no," Edward said, going to Ádewalé's side and took the pencil. He held it in his hand. "You hold a quill or pencil like this," Edward said, pinching the pencil with his thumb and index finger and allowing it to rest against his middle finger.

"Alright," Ádewalé said, accepting the pencil back. Awkwardly, he mimicked how Edward was holding it. "Like dis?"

"Good, you'll get better at it," Edward said, pulling his chair around to Ádewalé. "Now," he dragged the inkwell, quill and some sheets of paper close to him. He wrote out the first letter. "This is the letter A," Edward said.

"A," Ádewalé said.

"Yes," Edward drew it again, slowly. "You try." He watched as Ádewalé slowly wrote the letter A on his piece of paper. "Good, very good," Edward said and wrote out a lower case a. "This is also the letter A."

"How?" Ádewalé asked. "The first one ya wrote is A an' now dis one is also A?"

"Yes, this is a lower case A or little a," Edward explained, "all letters have a upper case version and a lower case version."

"Why?"

"I… I don't know," Edward muttered. "That's just how it works. Mam never said why either."

"Hm."

"Anyway, let's continue," Edward said and patiently showed him each of the twenty-six letters and their lower case forms. He gently correct Ádewalé when he made a mistake and wrote any letter the other man had issue with over and over again. They had been cloistered in Edward's cabin for nearly two hours when finally, Ádewalé mastered the letter Z.

"Now, what?" Ádewalé asked, flexing his right hand. It was cramping, not use to holding a pencil.

"We'll end the night with you writing your name," Edward said.

"My name?" Ádewalé said, staring at Edward. He never saw his name on paper before. Nobody wrote slaves' names down on paper. They were just numbers in a ledger book.

"Yes, your name," Edward said. "Á-d-e-w-a-l-é. Ádewalé." Edward said, showing it to his friend. "That's your name Áddie."

"A. D. E. W. A. L. E." Ádewalé whispered as he wrote his name out with painstaking slowness. Ádewalé stared at the childish hand letters, squiggly like wriggling worms, but a sense of pride filled him. A pride at seeing his own name. A slave wasn't allowed to be educated, and even though he was free, no white man bothered to offer to teach him his letters and numbers. He felt tears prick his eyes. "Thank you, Edward," Ádewalé whispered.

"Your welcome Áddie," Edward said.

"What… what does your name look like… on paper?" Ádewalé asked.

"My name?" Edward blinked. "Alright," he muttered, pulling free a fresh piece of paper. "Edward. E.D.W.A.R.D." Edward said, writing out each letter clearly. "Do you want to see my full name?"

"No, Edward is good," Ádewalé said. "Is that it?"

"For tonight, tomorrow I'll teach you words that'll be important for being a quartermaster, then numbers, more words and figuring sums and differences."

"It all sounds… complicated," Ádewalé muttered.

"We'll go slow, but you seem to be a quick study," Edward said.

"Thank you again," Ádewalé said, standing up. "I appreciate this very much." Ádewalé left Edward's cabin. Edward stared at Ádewalé's work, wondering if his handwriting was as sloppy when he first learned how to write.

* * *

 _London, England — 1732_

Edward looked up when he sensed someone was watching him. He watched as Haytham ducked behind the door. "Haytham," Edward said, "I know ya there son. Come out." Haytham inched his way into the doorway, sheepishly staring at his feet. "What are you doing sulking about, you little rascal? Trying to get a jump on me?"

Haytham's head shot up, slate eyes wide. "Oh, no!" Haytham protested. "It's just that… I… I saw the envelope… to the letters… to be sent out… one of them had just a name on it."

"All the envelopes have names on them," Edward said, beckoning Haytham closer. The boy trotted up to him. Stopping at his chair and clasping his hands behind his back. "One caught your eye didn't it?" Haytham nodded. "What did it say on it? Go on, tell me. You aren't in trouble."

"Ádewalé." Haytham said. "Who is he?"

"He's a friend. A very old friend."

"From when you were a pirate?" Haytham asked, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

"Me? A pirate? Who told you that? Surely not your mother," Edward said, scooping up his boy and setting Haytham on his lap.

"Jenny told me," Haytham said, "she told me she went to the West Indies to meet you and that she went to a pirate's cove."

Edward tossed his head back and laughed. "She's telling stories again."

"Jenny swears every word is true," Haytham protested. "Where you really a pirate? Is that why I'm not allowed to play with the other children?"

"No, no," Edward said, "it's not the reason. I'll tell you when you turn ten, as promise."

"Alright," Haytham sighed, trying not to show his disappointment at being denied further explanation. "Good night, Father," Haytham said as he slipped off Edward's lap.

"Night Haytham," Edward said, watching his son leave. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.

 _Dear Ádewalé…_

* * *

 **Ádewalé knowing that Haytham was Edward's son made me wonder if Ádewalé and Edward kept in touch. Then I remembered that as a slave, Ádewalé wouldn't have been taught to read and write. A captain needs to know letters and numbers to be an effective captain. Ádewalé strikes me as the type of person that would want to do things himself. So, Edward teaches him letters and numbers. They write letters when Edward returns to England. Thus! Ádewalé knows Haytham is Edward's son. :3**

 **Dedicated to nermallion on Tumblr.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**


	43. Come to Bed

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Characters: Élise and Arno**

* * *

Élise cracked the door open to Charlotte's room, one hand cupped around the candle's flame. She watched her daughter, snuggled safely in bed, sleep. The girl's chest rose and fell with each steady breath. Silently, Élise slipped into her daughter's room and walked up to the bed. " _Bonne nuit mon petit ange_ ," Élise whispered, before pressing a kiss to her daughter's temple. She smiled as Charlotte pulled her doll closer to her chest. Élise left, glancing back at Charlotte's sleeping from once more before closing the door.

Élise peeked into her own bedroom, which was down the hall, yet it was empty. She frowned. Arno went to bed before her on most nights. "He's probably still working," she grumbled, turning back down the hall. She climbed the stairs, candle flame flickering as she walked. She entered his study, about to give him a tongue lashing about working himself to death.

Instead she found him sitting in that ugly and uncomfortable looking chair, the book he was reading had fallen from his fingers onto the floor and soft snores where coming from him. "Oh, Arno," Élise whispered, setting the candle holder down on the desk and walking up to her husband. Smiling, she pulled the ribbon that bound his hair loose before running her fingers through his hair. He made a soft little sound, before opening his eyes.

"Élise," he whispered, a smile gracing his lips. "What time is it?"

"Time for bed, Charlie's asleep," Élise said, "Come to bed."

"Alright," Arno said, getting up from the chair and stretching. "My back… I definitely can't sleep in a chair like I use to."

"You use to sleep in a chair?"

"All the time, trying to puzzle things out during the Revolution. And when we were children, doing school work. I never had my work done in a timely fashion and spent most of the night awake trying to finish it all before the tutor came," Arno said.

"Well, the bed is too big without you, so it gets lonely," Élise replied.

"I imagine it does," Arno agreed, pushing some of his hair out of his face. "Come, let's go to bed then."

* * *

 **I had this idea that Élise wakes Arno up by running her fingers through his hair, because he went into work-aholic mode and fell asleep at his desk or in a chair. Irunno, I think I'm missing the mark on Arno's character. :/**


	44. Peach

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Charaters: Arno and Élise**

 **Setting: Modern/College AU**

* * *

" _Révolution dans les rues, je vois le chaos en dessous. La justice est une rivière rouge; je te cherche, où es-tu?_ " Élise muttered, foot tapping out the beat of the music. She glanced away from the computer screen, flipped a fragilely thin page of the thousand plus pages of some French literature book, before glancing back at the screen. " _My revolution carries me…_ " she muttered, as she uploaded yet another picture of her boyfriend's butt. "His butt after a shower," she muttered, typing in the title before hitting the post button.

She pulled up the paper she was supposed to be writing on some dead French author and poet, the same author of the stupidly thick book she was supposed to be reading. She swore her professor was a mad man, what with his two off colored eyes. Élise shook her head as she typed out more sentences. She always got As on her paper, so she wasn't too worried. A knock sounded on her door. "Élise? Élise, can I come in?"

It was Arno. "Door's open," she called, exiting out of her internet browser. The door open to reveal her boyfriend, flour on his clothes and some pale purple icing on his cheek. "Arno," she said.

"Hey." He sat down on the foot of the bed and grabbed her foot. "Nice nails."  
"Got them done last week," she said as she pulled her headphones out. "What brings you to my room?"

"I need a favor," Arno said, gentle messaging her foot. Élise sighed.

"Well, you're gonna have to wait until I get this paper written," Élise said. Arno tapped her foot lightly.

"Not that type of favor," he said, "can I borrow your laptop?"

Élise stilled. "Why?" she asked warily, arching a brow. "What's wrong with yours?"

"It's broken."

"How? Did you let Jacob drop it from the roof?"

Arno's eyes grew wide. "What! No!" he shook his head. "It won't turn on, so it's in the shop. I have to write a paper and my professor won't take anything hand written."

"I can't imagine why," Élise said, "your handwriting is atrocious."

"Please, Élise," Arno asked. "This is the last gen. ed. class I need."

"No," Élise said, going back to writing her paper. Arno stopped rubbing her foot. "Don't stop Arno, it felt good."

"Why can't I borrow your laptop, Élise?" Arno asked.

"Because."

"Élise."

"The answer is no Arno," Élise said, looking at him. "Type it up on the school's computers."

"Élise!" Arno protested, a pout on his face. "Please?"

"No," Élise repeated, watching as Arno dropped her foot onto the bed and stood.

"Fine, you can't have any of the cookies I'm making," he snipped. Élise rolled her eyes. "I'm serious."

"Uh-huh. I'm sure Jacob will love your cookies," Élise muttered, going back to writing her paper. Arno stayed for a moment longer before exiting the room. Élise breathed a sigh of relief and waited five minutes before opening her internet browser again. She clicked on the tumblr icon on her bookmark bar. "Oh wow," she muttered, blushing at how many notes her latest post of Arno's butt got. "Round like a peach, huh." Élise giggled, before going into her folder and looking for more good pictures of Arno's ass.

* * *

Arno opened his eyes once he was sure Élise was asleep. He looked down at her, snuggled up close to him, using his shoulder as a pillow. He smiled, wanting to stroke her face but he didn't want to wake her. Carefully, Arno slid his arm from beneath her head, quickly replacing it with a pillow before getting out of bed. He tiptoed to the other side and picked up Élise's laptop. He sat in a chair and opened it, turning it on. He was met with a prompt for a password. "Shit," Arno muttered, before typing in the first thing that came to mind. The password was denied. He tried the next one he could think of, that too was denied. He looked at the hint. "Arno will never get it," he muttered. "What the hell does that even mean?"

He tried again, and again, until the computer prompted him that if he failed to enter the password one more time it would lock itself. Sighing in defeat, Arno closed the lid to Élise's laptop and crawled back into bed.

* * *

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **\- Nemo**


	45. The Language of Flowers

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _Rose_

The hustle and bustle of the streets of Paris pressed in around him, it was the perfect place to discuss secrets. Too much noise for proper eavesdropping. Still, Arno scanned the crowd, looking for any one suspicious. "…Arno? Are you listening?" Élise asked, stopping to look at him.

"Hm? Oh," Arno faltered. "Sorry, I was looking for…" he sighed, "no, I'm not."

Élise sighed, looking away. "I was saying it would wise to restore the truce between our orders once Germain's been dealt with."

"Oh," Arno said, "yes, it would be wise. I'm sure the Council would agree. You'd be the Grand Master of the Templar Order."

"Indeed," Élise replied pensively. "Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself."

"We should have an evening together," Arno said, absently, eyes fixed on a couple walking down the street.

"We don't have time for such frivolous things, Arno," Élise said. Arno sighed, wanting to disagree. He knew better though than to argue with Élise, especially when she got something in her head. She took his hand and began to lead him through the crowd, but he slipped his hand free, followed her for a few heartbeats before doubling back and vanishing into the crowd.

Arno found the flower stall easily enough. Arno plucked three red and three white roses from the baskets offered. "I'll take these," he said a bit breathlessly. The stall keeper smiled.

"Well, someone has a lady in mind," she cooed, wrapping the stems of the roses. Arno swallowed, tugging at his hood to keep the blush on his cheeks hidden. He knew Élise would notice that he's not with her soon and he had to get back before she did. The woman tied the wrapped stems together with a red ribbon. "I hope she loves them," the woman said, handing them over as she accepted Arno's money.

"Me too," Arno replied, and slipped back into the crowd. He concentrated, staring at the crowd until he found the familiar astral golden glow that ringed Élise. He smirked, threading his way through the crowd until he reached her.

"Where did you slip off too?" Élise asked, her voice tight. Arno stood before her, hiding the bouquet behind his back. He was smiling. "Arno, is something?"

"No, it's just, that… well," he presented her with the flowers, "here. Some roses," he muttered, "I hope you like them."

"Oh," Élise said, "thank you." She accepted the flowers and sniffed them. "They smell nice." Élise looked up at Arno, stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, Arno," Élise whispered and threaded her fingers with his. They began to walk again, and Élise leaned against him, admiring the roses.

* * *

 _Honeysuckle_

Haytham clasped his hands behind him and stared up at Ziio who was perched among the branches of the tree. "Ziio, would you be so kind as to come down," he called. She ignored him. "Ziio, please!" Haytham sighed. He took his tricorn off and scratched his head. "I have to talk to you about something."

"Come up here and tell me then," Ziio teased, looking down at Haytham, a playful smile on her lips. Haytham frowned. He kicked the ground, not wanting to make a fool of himself because he still had yet to manage the art of tree climbing. Ziio made it so simple, moving gracefully as the squirrels, scuttling from branch to branch. Haytham was jerked out of his musings by the sound of her landing. Ziio grabbed his hand and he pulled her close, stealing a kiss. "What do you have to talk to me about, English boy?"

Haytham flushed, cleared his throat with a cough and turned his attention back to her. "I'm… Charles, stressed that my presents is needed in Boston. It's most urgent that I return," Haytham said.

Ziio deflated with a sigh, pulling free. "How long will you be gone this time?" she asked as she turned around. She leaned against the tree, her back to him, and by her posture, Haytham guessed her hands were folded over her chest. "I don't like that you keep running off to Boston."

"I don't do it because I don't care about you, Ziio," Haytham said, walking around the tree, hand trailing along the bark in his wake. "I do," he said, once he was able to face her. "I care about you a great deal," he voice was soft, tender. "It's just that I have responsibilities and duties to the—"

"Yes, I know," Ziio sighed, pushing away from the tree. "Haytham?" Ziio whispered.

"Hm?" he looked up at her, having been focused on the flowers at his feet.

"Have you ever thought about… having a family?" she asked, her hand graced her still flat stomach, she'll tell him today.

Haytham stooped, braking off the stem of a bunch of honeysuckles as he contemplated his answer. "I…" he sighed raggedly, "I dare not entertain the idea," he said finally. "My life… my dedication the order… is… rather consuming. I don't think I'd have time to be a proper father." Haytham twirled the flowers about in his hand, "At least. Not the type of father I want to be."

"Oh," Ziio breathed. That changed things, she looked away, deciding it would be best not to tell him. Haytham took her hands, pressing the honeysuckles into her grasp, and he brought her hands to his lips and kissed them, like a prince from a story. "Haytham…."

"That doesn't mean that I won't be there for a child of my blood," Haytham said, "those flowers symbolize the bond of our love."

"Haytham," Ziio whispered, feeling the tears prick the corners of her eyes. Haytham kissed her.

* * *

 **And… I wanted to do Connorline as well, but I just couldn't think of anything for them. I plan to do another one of these. I'm thinking Lily of the Valley for Shay and Hope.**

 **Red roses and white roses together symbolize unity. Red roses symbolize love, and white roses symbolize purity.**

 **Honeysuckles symbolize the bond of love.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

\- Nemo


	46. Pocky Kiss

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"Alright, half hour lunch break," the director called. The drama students all sighed with relief, muttering about how uncomfortable their period costumes were. Arno wriggled his red neck cloth back and forth a bit in an effort to loosen it. The costumes were such a pain to get in and out of nobody bothered to change for a lunch break. Arno glanced about the milling crowd of students, looking for Élise, didn't see her, so decided to head around back to grab his lunchbox.

He sat there, behind the stage, eating his lunch in silence and reading Macbeth, which was required for English. "There you are," Élise said, as she nudged his foot. "I've been looking all over for you."

"I didn't see you," Arno replied as Élise plopped down beside him. She reached into his lunchbox and grabbed the packet of pocky he had packed. "What do you think of the play?"

"Whomever thought it was a good idea to do _Las Unit_ _é_ is an idiot," Élise sighed. "The book was written by the Marquis de Sade after the French Revolution."

"I know," Arno said, "I looked up the book when I was cast for Arnaud."

Élise opened the packet of pocky, giggling. "You're such a nerd Arno." She kissed his cheek. "But I love you."

Arno blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Jeez, Élise…"

"Ah-ah, I'm _Élisabeth_ remember," Élise teased, snuggling against him. She rested her head on his shoulder. "Isn't their story tragic though?"

"Hm," Arno ran his hand along Élise's arm before threading his fingers with hers. "I guess. I mean, Arnaud was just a poor soldier under Napoleon's command and Élisabeth was the daughter of a noble. They worked together to track down Élisabeth's father's killer but in the end Élisabeth is dead and Arnaud is imprisoned for her murder."

"It's not fair," Élise whispered, "is it?" She took a bite of the pocky she swiped from Arno.

"No, it's not," Arno muttered, he glanced at Élise as she devoured the pocky in three bites. "You know those are mine," he said.

"I know," Élise smiled at him. "Oh!" a devilish glint in her green eyes. "Let's do the pocky kiss!"

"The what?" Arno arched a brow.

"Oh my god, Arno! You eat pocky but don't watch anime?"

"I like pocky, because I can eat it while readying and not make a mess all over my books," Arno muttered. Élise laughed, leaning against him.

"You are such a nerd, Arno, but you're my nerd." Élise said and sat up, "Stupid costume. I swear, I can't imagine women wearing corsets nowadays. They are terribly uncomfortable."

"So, what is this pocky kiss?" Arno asked. Élise smiled.

"It's like the spaghetti kiss from _Lady and the Tramp_. We each start at one end and meet in the middle," Élise said and pulled out another piece of pocky. Arno stared at it before biting the end he was offered. Élise bit her end. Arno felt stupid, munching on the pocky with Élise.

They met in the middle, Arno taking the chance to kiss her, and stealing the last bit of pocky from her. Her lips tasted of chocolate and cookie, and the cherry lip gloss she liked to use. He felt her hand on his chest and the other hand on his shoulder. His tongue graced her lips and she parted them, allowing him to slip his tongue into her mouth. Her moan sent shudders down his spine.

"What do you two think you're doing!" a voice snapped. Arno and Élise pulled away and looked up at the director, his dark brown silver streaked hair was pulled back into a tail at his nape.

"Mr. Kenway," Arno stammered, shocked that Haytham Kenway, the drama teacher and director caught them. "We were just uh…"

"Practicing for the balloon kiss," Élise lied smoothly, as she stood up.

"Well, enough, it's time to get back to rehearsal," Haytham said, glanced at his clipboard before walking back towards the stage, barking orders as he went. Arno stood up and took Élise's hand.

"Good cover," Arno said and Élise flashed him a smile. "I still don't like him though."

"Would you rather have Germain?" Élise asked. Arno balked, thinking of the French teacher, whom all the students called the Teacher from Hell.

"No," Arno said as he took Élise's hand and headed towards the stage, "no, Mr. Kenway is fine."

* * *

 **Companion piece for the-solar-surfer's pocky kiss fanart. She accidentally drew them in their normal 18** **th** **century clothes, instead of modern day clothes. So… Arno and Élise are partaking in a school place called** _ **Las Unit**_ _ **é**_ **which was written by Marquis de Sade. It's basically Unity only without the whole Templar and Assassin thing.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo**

 **PS: Threw Haytham in as their drama teacher for shits and giggles. :P**


	47. With Time Comes Understanding

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _Paris, France_ _—_ _July 28, 1794_

Arno stroked her cheek gently, trying to coax an expression to Élise's much too still face. "No," he whispered, "no, no, no! Élise!" he took her by her shoulders and shook her, not hard but enough to rouse her. Her head flopped from side to side like a discarded doll. Arno glanced up at Germian's lifeless body, the man's head resting in a pool of his own blood. Arno balled his hands into fists and wished he had the power to bring back the dead to kill Germain again.

Arno choked on a sob, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears. He knew Élise would want him to carry on but life just seemed so hopeless without her, nothing but an empty dream. He rose to his feet, and walked to where that damn sword was lying. "Nobody should wield this type of power," Arno muttered as he slipped the weapon into his belt. He went back to Élise's body. Swallowing, he brushed her hair from her face. She looked so beautiful and peaceful, as if she was merely sleeping. Arno slid his arms beneath her and scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. He closed the chamber behind him, and carried her out of the Temple. It would be Germain's tomb, but not Élise's.

Once outside Arno made his way through the streets of Paris, until he reached Norte Dame. "You had wanted to get married in Norte Dame," Arno whispered, glancing at Élise's, her head resting on his shoulder. "Instead your wake will be held in it," he said, bitter and heartbroken.

 _They_ should have been married in Norte Dame. He was going to ask her for her hand after this. Instead, he took her down and little alley, the great cathedral's shadow standing vigil over the city. It's thousand gargoyles stone sentinels, watching him make his way to a small little church dedicated to St. Raphael. "Father Henri! Father Henri!" Arno called once he entered the little church. He heard a voice curse and a plump bold priest stumbled out, wooden crucifix dangling from his neck.

"Arno, my dear boy, what brings…." Father Henri stopped at the sight of Arno, carrying Élise's corpse. "Oh, my dear boy," Father Henri murmured. "Bring her this way." He gestured for Arno to bring Élise to the alter. He cleared it, of what little items rested upon it, and Arno gently placed her body on the stone slab.

"Would you see to her… that she has the—" Arno stopped, tears leaking from his eyes. He bit his lip, covering his mouth with a hand. "I'm sorry."

Father Henri put a comforting hand on Arno's shaking shoulder. "Don't apologize Arno, I'll see to her and make sure she receives proper care."

"Thank you," Arno said, sniffing and wiping away his tears. "I… ah… have to speak to the Assassin Council. Tell them… tell them what has happened."

"Yes," Father Henri said, "do what you must." Arno stood up, looked at Élise and stroked her hair once before leaving. Father Henri sighed, staring at Arno's back. He then looked at Élise's body. "Oh, my dear girl, you should not have sacrificed yourself for such a foolhardy cause. You should have listened to Arno."

* * *

 _Paris, France – November 15, 1847_

Ethan sighed as he ran his hand through his short hair. Last time he was in the French city he had been a young man, a journeyman assassin with Cecily by his side. Last time he was in Paris, his mentor wasn't so stooped, nor did he have a cane. His hair was an iron grey oppose to the moon silver it faded too. There were fewer wrinkles on his face and his hazel eyes still held the light of life in them, instead of being dim with age.

Last time he was in Paris the world was his for the taking.

"Ethan," Arno said, his voice raspy with age and illness, the old French assassin coughed, a wet whacking sound. "Good to see you." Ethan shook Arno's hand.

"I hope I didn't drag you from your sick bed Master Arno," Ethan said as he sat down, he glanced around the Café Théâtre. The place buzzed with the low murmur of conversation, and Ethan could pick out the assassins that were relaxing or discussing potential targets.

"Nonsense," Arno wheezed. "I was getting frustrated being cooped up in that room anyway."

"How are your children?" Ethan asked. Arno smiled sadly.

"Alive. Hunting Templars, tracking down Pieces of Eden to hide them. My daughter… recently gave birth to her own child," Arno laughed, "I say recent when it was really seven years ago, and she had two more since the first."

"You're a grandfather, congratulations," Ethan said, a smile on his face.

"Yes, my eldest son also has children. I have five grandchildren, Ethan. I felt old seven years ago when my first grandchild was born, but five, ha!" Arno said, only to go into another coughing fit. "Damn flux."

"I'm glad to hear that," Ethan said.

"How is Cecily by the by?" Arno asked, and when he saw Ethan's face fall he knew the worse that come to pass. Ethan didn't look up when Arno placed an old gnarly hand on his. "I'm sorry Ethan."

"I blame him," Ethan whispered softly, "even though I know he had nothing to do with it, I still blame him. The doctor said such things happen on occasion."

"Blame him?" Arno asked.

"Jacob…" Ethan looked up then, "my son." Arno gifted Ethan with a rueful smile. "I have a daughter and a son, Arno. Evie and Jacob. They are twins, Evie's the oldest. Cecily died birthing them… there were complications and…" Ethan looked up at Arno. "Does it get easier Arno? Does this pain eventually fade?"

Arno squeezed Ethan's hand before letting go and looking away. He pulled out a worn old letter. His name written in a graceful hand. "I've read this letter over a thousand times, most likely more," Arno said, he pulled the letter out of its envelope, there were two pages. "It was her last letter to me. Explaining why she did what she did that night."

"Who?" Ethan asked. He met Arno's wife a few times before when he was a young man, but Arno never spoke of any other woman other than his wife. Ethan had been too terrified of what the man would do if he had asked.

"My one love," Arno said, "Élise."

"Élise?" Ethan asked.

"Yes, my daughter shares her name. Élise de la Serre was an extraordinary woman, fiery, kind, stubborn. She had a mischievous streak and was always quick to laugh. I loved her, and I never loved anyone else. She was killed by the same man that orchestrated her father's murder. She was too drunk on revenge to heed me. If she had just waited a few more minutes, I would have been freed and we would have taken Germain together."

"I'm… I'm sorry," Ethan whispered.

"Don't be Ethan, it was fifty-three years ago." Arno caressed. "But it still feels like it happened yesterday. But, I'll be seeing her soon anyway."

"What?" Ethan asked.

"I'm dying Ethan," Arno said, folding up the letter and sliding it over to Ethan. "I know in my bones that I don't have much longer to live. I've seen and lost enough for one life time. I'm looking forward to a good rest."

"You… You can't die, Arno. Who will guide me?" Ethan asked. "You've been… like a father to me in ways that I can't even describe."

Arno chuckled. "You sound like my own children, Ethan. 'No, Papa, you can't die! I still need you!'" Arno looked away. "I never did ask you, but why are you in Paris?"

"I'm… traveling to India. I need to… get away from England, clear my head and figure out what… what do with my life."

"What about your children?"

"Their grandmother is watching them. For six years only. Then I have to return. I'm not myself Arno. Ever since Cecily's death, I'm not myself."

"I understand; I went on a similar journey after Élise's death. Well, you are welcome to stay at the Café Théâtre."

"Thank you," Ethan said and stood up, leaving the letter on the table. Arno watched Ethan walk off before he took the letter and slipped it back into his pocket.

The next day, Ethan rocked on his feet as he prepared to get into the steamboat that would take him south to a ship waiting to sail to Egypt. "Monsieur Frye! Monsieur Frye!" a voice piped through the crowd. Ethan turned as people grumbled. "Monsieur Frye!" the voice called again, and petite young woman tumbled out of the crowd. "Monsieur Frye, I was told to give you this, by Monsieur Dorian."

"Thank you," Ethan said, taking the letter, which he recognized as Élise's last letter to Arno. "But…"

"Monsieur Dorian passed away this morning, his last wish was that this letter be given to you," the maid said.

"No," Ethan whispered, squeezing the letter tightly. He looked down at it, realizing that Arno had kept this with him for fifty-three years, that Arno never moved on from Élise. "Did… Did he say what I should with the letter?" Ethan asked. The maid shook her head.

"No, just that he wanted you to have it," the maid said. Ethan nodded, and the maid gave a little bow before heading back to the café. Ethan tucked the letter inside his coat before boarding the steamboat.

* * *

 **I almost teared up on some parts. I was listening to Tides of Time by Epica, and I had this idea that Ethan would stop in Paris to say hi to Arno before heading off to India, and that Arno would understand Ethan's pain of losing Cecily.**

 **Tea Logic has this brilliant idea that Arno and Ethan knew each other, and that Arno was Ethan's mentor.**

 **In my head, the British Assassins have an apprentice program. They start training when they are 12/13, and don't advance to journeyman status until four years later, which then they travel around Europe for another four years gaining knowledge from the assassins elsewhere. Cecily and Ethan spent some of their journey man time in Paris under Arno's mentor ship.**

 **Arno marriage with arranged, his cares about his wife, but he doesn't love her, not in the way he loved Élise. To me, he'll forever and always only love Élise.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **-Nemo**


	48. Lazy

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"And I'm done!" Élise said, grinning as she sent her paper on _Justine_ and _Juliette_. "Ugh, 18th Century French literature. At least he didn't require I read them in French. Thank god for small mercies, isn't that right Bellec?" she asked the black cat that was sitting on the bed next to her. She stroked it along it's back a few times. The cat blinked his green eyes up at her before furiously licking the spot where she had touched him. Élise rolled her eyes. "You are so crabby. Crabby kitty!" she cuddled the animal. The cat mewed in protest before slipping free, licked his shoulder and walked off. Élise chuckled. "Now, to find Arno." She closed her laptop, slipped off her bed and headed off in search of her boyfriend.

As she wandered downstairs, her phone buzzed. "Huh?" she read the message from Evie asking her if she wanted to partake in a group date with her, Henry, Connor and Aveline. _No thanks, maybe another time. Just got done with my paper for French Lit. gonna fine Arno._ Élise typed out before hitting send. Smiling, she slipped her phone into her pocket and continued wandering around the two story house she and Arno rented from her father, needless to say the rent was stupidly cheap.

She found him out back, lounging in the hammock, one arm tucked beneath his head. Élise pulled out her phone and took a picture. The sound of the camera shutter woke Arno. "Élise," he said, only to yawn. "I thought you were locked away in the bedroom until you finished your paper?"

"I finished it," Élise declared proudly, walking up to him. "How are your studies going, hmm?"

"Good, unlike you I got them done ahead of schedule," he quipped. "Any plans now that you are a free woman?"

"I was thinking about running away to France," Élise said, sitting on the edge of the hammock. "But then I thought better of it."

"Pity, I would have loved to gone to France with you," Arno said and tugged her gently into his arms. Élise giggled, kissing his jawline.

"You need to shave," Élise commented.

"I thought you like my beard? I'm going for one of those big bushy ones like Darwin had," Arno said. Élise shuddered.

"No, just a little bit is good, too much is yuck," Élise said, tapping him on the nose. Arno chuckled, rolling his eyes. Élise snuggled against him, resting her head in the crook of his neck. "What are we going to do after college?"

"Get a job, be miserable in said job, get married, have some kids, have a mid-life crisis, go back to school, wonder where the hell it all went wrong," Arno said. Élise smacked him. "What, I'm being serious."

"I think you've been hanging out with Jacob too much," Élise said, looking up at Arno, she tossed some hair out of her eyes. "I think we should take a trip after college and then get a job and we'll get married."

"We will get married… as in you and I get married to, right?" Arno asked, he lowered one foot to keep the hammock rocking once the motion began to slow down. Élise glowered at him.

"Of course, you and I, Arno! Where have you been this entire conversation?" Élise asked.

"Admiring your beautiful eyes," Arno said. Élise looked at him askew.

"Good save," she muttered.

"It's just that… we've been friends since childhood, sweethearts since high school and… well… marriage is just… I don't know, I expected to date a bunch of different people before finding the right one."

"We're lucky Arno," Élise whispered, closing her eyes. She was feeling content in his arms, the warm breeze, the beating of Arno's heart. How he played with her hair and the rocking of the hammock, all were lulling her to sleep. "Not everyone finds each other so young," she said.

"Yes but," he stopped when she pressed a finger to his lips.

"You are questioning a good thing, stop it," Élise said before kissing him. "I want to go to Paris."

"Alright, we'll go to Paris," Arno said, and glanced down at her. "Élise?" he whispered, but she didn't answer. Arno called her again, but she merely made a soft coo before snuggling closer to him. He chuckled, surprised she fell asleep. Arno watched her then, admiring the soft angles of her face, how her red hair contrasted against her cream colored skin and accenting the pink of her lips. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, gently. "I love you, Élise," he whispered, and he went back to watching her sleep, rocking the hammock with his foot.

* * *

 **Since the last one was so sad, he's something cute and fluffy.**

 **Ugh, I'm tired. Syndicate was glitching. I think that's code for time to turn it off and go to bed.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **-Nemo**


	49. Haytham's Letters

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"Here ya go sir," the clerk said, unlocking the modest size house that had been closed since Haytham's death. "The former residence of Haytham E. Kenway." The man gave Connor an appraising look before glancing over at Aveline. The New Orleans Assassin glared back at the man and the clerk swallowed nervously. "Since you are erm… his son, the house is rightfully yours. Do whatever you wish with it." The clerk handed Connor the key and deed before leaving.

"Thank you," Connor called over his shoulder, but the clerk didn't hear and Connor was in no mood to pursue the man. He walked in, dust puffing up as he took a step. Despite his lavish upbringing, Haytham Kenway's home was rather modest.

"He lived like a miser," Aveline said, following Connor inside. "I thought you said your grandfather made his wealth from piracy?"

"He did, but clearly Father felt the opposite. Then again, I doubt my father had much time to enjoy the luxuries my grandfather's pirate plunder could afford him. Considering he was trained as an assassin."

"Yet, he still became a Templar," Aveline commented, picking up a trinket on a little table.

"And what about your parents?" Connor asked. Aveline gave Connor a brittle smile, before muttering something in French. Connor snorted, letting it go and continued to wander the house. There was nothing of interest in the living room or the kitchen and dining rooms. Connor made sure to stomp the floorboards looking for hidden doors or passage ways that his father may have conducted secret Templar business with, but found none. Aveline had no luck either.

Connor climbed the stairs, noting that one bedroom was a guest and the other was his father's. It was in his father's bedroom that Connor found anything remotely worth salvaging. The first thing that caught his eye was a sword. "This is… the Kenway family sword…" Connor whispered, holding the blade in hand and etched near the hilt was the name _Kenway_. He was pleased to note the weapon had a rather sharp edge on it.

"It belongs to you by birthright," Aveline said, admiring the weapon.

"I do not consider myself a Kenway," Connor said.

"But you don't use Davenport as a surname either," Aveline pointed out, watching as Connor sheathed to sword and attached it to his belt. Connor glanced at Aveline, but didn't say anything. Connor wandered over to the bookshelf, admiring his father's collection. The books he'll take. He'd get some of his recruits to pack them up and send them to the Homestead, and maybe even that portrait of his grandfather that was hanging on the wall and the one of his father beside it. So he could at least remember that man's face, remember all the mistakes he made.

" _Et qu'est ce que c'est_?" Aveline said, from the bed. She had knelt down and apparently found something. Connor heard the sound of metal against wood and Aveline pulled free a small metal box. She set it on the bed and broke the lock with a well-placed strike with the butt of her pistol.

"What did you fine?" Connor asked, though he already knew: Templar treasure.

"Well, this is odd," Aveline said, staring at the contents of the small chest. "Is this Native?"

"What?" Connor frowned, his father never spoke of the Mohawk people or anything relating to the Natives of the region. "Let me see," Connor said, crossing the room in three strides to come to Aveline's side and stared at the contents of the box. Within were several letters written in his father's neat hand and beaded jewelry and strips of leather. Connor held one of the beaded strips in his hand, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger. He'd recognize the pattern anywhere, for it was the same pattern his people favored. "It is Kanien'kehá:ka… Mohawk," Connor confirmed, "but why… would he even have these things? And why letters? Who are they from?"

"Or to," Aveline interjected, "he could have written letters but never sent them."

"Why?" Connor asked.

"How close were your parents?" Aveline asked. Connor stared at the letter in his hand. "Connor?"

"Mother never spoke of Father voluntarily, though she did answer the few questions I asked about him. Father only mentioned her once in the brief time I knew him. My reaction was not the… best and he never spoke of her again." Connor held a letter in his hand, he noted that it had one name on the envelope: _Ziio_. The name his mother gave to the white men since they couldn't pronounce Kaniehtí:io. Connor spotted a little book at the bottom. He set the letter down and tugged the book free.

"What is it?" Aveline asked, peering at it alone with Connor. Connor flipped it open. It was a sketchbook, the Templars he had slain, Charles Lee with his fluffy little dogs, Hickey in a tavern with a beer in one hand and a woman's tit in the other; sketches of the city, and the wildlife in the frontier.

"It is my father's sketch book, I did not know he could draw," Connor said, and he flipped through some more pages before nearly dropping the book.

"What?" Aveline asked, looking up from examining the letters. "Connor?"

" _Ista_ …" he whispered, lightly touching a sketch of his mother. He looked through all the rest of the pages, nothing but images of his mother. Then the sketches abruptly stopped. "He… sketched her," Connor said thickly. He dropped the sketch book into the chest and closed it. He picked the chest up. "I think we can come back tomorrow and retrieve the books with the recruits."

"Uh… yes," Aveline agreed, following Connor out.

* * *

 _My dearest Ziio,_

 _I'm sorry that we parted on such negative terms. I have come to realize that my actions ultimately drove you away and I regret it. For that I am sorry, but you must understand that I am a man with a heart divided. I'm torn between my loyalty and duty to the Order and my amaranthine love for you._

 _It is only now, after the Assassin's Colonial Brotherhood has been eliminate, my sister safe and the man I once called friend and confidant dead at my feet that I realize… truly see for the first time, all the lies that have been woven after my father's untimely death. The Templars prey upon the weak minded, as I was back then. My father dead, my disillusion with the Brotherhood… all of it, made me easy prey for the Templars._

 _Forgive me, I don't wish to tell you my entire life story but I feel comfortable enough to tell you these things for I feel that you would understand them. Regardless, Reginald Birch had quiet effectively hoodwinked me and maybe if I had remained an assassin after my father's death we could still could have been together._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Haytham_

 _July 17, 1759_

 _My dearest Ziio,_

 _The colonies are ripe with unrest and murmuring of rebellion. The British Parliament has passed several piece of legislation that are rather unfavorable with the colonists. Naturally, my Order has flourished in these troubled times and we seek to manipulate events in our favor: be that rebellion or peace. Only time can truly tell._

 _I hope you are well. Though I don't know why I even bother asking since these letters will never find their way to you. Regardless, it is polite and if anything my mother taught me still remains with me to this day is that I must be polite._

 _I have set up a modest yet highly successful little bookshop, peddling all the greatest novels and pamphlets hailing from the Colonies and Europe. Needless to say, I loathe the Stamp Act as it hinders my business. Though to be honest, the bookshop is a clever ruse, since in the basement there is a meeting place for our Order. The Sons of Liberty preferring the_ Green Dragon _for their talks of rebellion._

 _I urge you to convince your people to stay out of this mess and I also implore you to convince them to sell your lands to William. We don't want to drive your people away, merely have it purchased in our name to keep_ others _off of it. You may stay on your ancestral lands and live has you always had, we have other ways of garnishing power and wealth without the need to gobble up land. Please, you must believe me, Ziio. I only wish to see that you and yours remain free._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Haytham_

 _December 4, 1765_

 _PS: Today is my birthday. I'm forty years old._

 _My dearest Ziio,_

 _You wouldn't smile at me today. No, definitely not after I inform you that I had lit the fuse that will lead these colonies into open war. There had been a so-called massacre, Samuel Adams scaremongering tactics no doubt, that I instigated along with Charles. I regret that lives were lost in the process but the Order has its rhymes and reasons and sometimes blood must be spilled in order for progress to advance. Surely you understand, even though you may not agree with me._

 _My father is probably rolling his grave, cursing my very name. Maybe he is even threatening to drown me as I write this, ashamed of the son he sired. I hope he isn't. I truly hope he isn't. I have followed his teachings faithfully and I am convinced that the Templar philosophy aligns with what he taught me. Yet, there is a wriggling worm of doubt in my heart that he may be looking down upon me with shame oppose to pride. This doubt makes me question whether the Templars and the Assassins should truly continue fighting. We are very much the same in many ways with a few philosophical differences. Yet… I wonder if a third option cannot be found._

 _Hopefully, if I make it out of this coming war alive, we can speak again in person. I have no grand illusion about rekindling our romance, but I do still love you. You are the only woman that I have ever loved. All the others had been to fulfill a baser and cardinal desire. You, Ziio, on the other hand had stolen my heart. Though I fear I had given it to you gladly._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Haytham_

 _April 8, 1770_

 _My dearest Ziio,_

 _I write this to you in a shaky hand because… well, you never informed me of our son. I feel like I should scream and curse your name and call you every foul thing known to man, but I can't. I can't bring myself to do so._

 _A son… our son._

 _I don't even know his name. His birthdate, the first thing about him besides the fact that he is an Assassin!_

 _I bet you are loathed to hear that. I am too. For that means our child is destined to slay me at some point, unless I can convince to give up this foolish notion of his and allow me to educate him and cure him of his ignorance. But I doubt that, I see too much of you in him already._

 _My hand is also unsteady for I regretfully must inform you that I agreed to send him to the gallows. He nearly hanged by my order, but… a moment of paternity struck me and I… I freed him. Though a sniper upon the roof had already weaken the rope, it was still I that had thrown the dagger that freed our son._

 _If only you had told me sooner, Ziio. I would have stayed! I would have been involved in our son's life! Why did you deny me such knowledge? Did I truly frightened you in our last moments together that you feared not only for yourself but for our unborn son? It breaks my heart if that is true for I would never hurt someone of my own flesh and blood. Now Achilles has tainted him against me, and I will probably never be able to forge any bond with my own son._

 _How cruel of you, Ziio. How cruel._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Haytham_

 _June 28, 1776_

 _My dearest Ziio,_

 _Connor. His name is Connor._

 _Funny, I don't think that was the name you bestowed upon him when he was placed in your arms as a squalling newborn. I have wanted to ask him, but I never get the words right or find the proper moment to bring up such a subject. He's content to keep me at an easy distance, and I'm all too content to stay there._

 _He's tall. A little taller than me. He gets that from my mother's side. She was ungainly and tall for a woman. He looks like you, but the Kenway jaw and nose are ever present in his face. He has your eyes, though. I cannot hold his gaze for long for memories of you will flood into my heart unbidden and I do not wish for our son to see me so weak. Though, I'm sure you taught him how to track and climb, for he is excellent at it, as you were._

 _I knew you were feeling a trifle ill before we ended our romance, but I never would have suspected you were pregnant! Though in hindsight I should have since that was the only logical conclusion to our passion filled nights beneath the stars. I long for those days now, when times seemed simpler. Now… the war rages on and there is talk that come spring the Americans will be defeated since the winter is decimating Washington's Army._

 _Charles Lee belittles Washington and he rightly should, yet I must give credit where credit is due (something my father taught me). Washington is a brilliant man. Despite his own personal misgivings, he does not show it to his men or the public. All they see is the strong and capable leader that they had appointed. He is cleverer than we gave him credit for and despite Connor's assistance, the man had won the respect of France and an alliance with her. And if rumor is to be believed, Washington is also a brilliant spymaster. I believe the Americans may yet win this war now. Only time will tell._

 _Meanwhile, Connor and I have been hunting down a Templar by the name of Benjamin Church. Not only has he betrayed the Continental Army, but also the Templars. Both acts are unforgivable and thus we pursue him. Maybe there is hope for our son to be convinced of the Templar philosophy._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Haytham_

 _March 1, 1777_

 _PS: Connor has inform me of your death, yet I will still write these letters as if you were alive and I meant to send them to you._

 _My dearest Ziio,_

 _I fear that I may be joining you shortly, in that veil beyond death. Connor and I had a falling out, one that I was unable to amend. I should have told him sooner, from the start really, who caused the destruction of your village that ultimately lead to your death. It wasn't the Templars. No, it was George Washington, acting upon orders to destroy villages of the Native peoples that had allied with the French. I had confronted Washington and Connor with this evidence, hoping to break the bond between Washington and Connor and convince our son to join the Templars._

 _Alas, another blunder I've made. I've misjudged him and he went rushing off to protect your village. No harm there, but… he was so very hurt from the deception that I had strung along. I feel guilty about it, wishing I had foreseen such a thing… Regardless, the past is the past and I can do nothing now to fix it._

 _He's coming for me, Ziio, our son. Our child, conceived out of love, yet is now so filled with hate and rage that he refuses to listen to reason! Oh, what has this family come to? In my greying years I wish my father had never been seduced by stories of the Observatory, for then he would have never been an Assassin and I would have grown up like any other boy of means in London, blissfully ignorant of the secret war that raged in the shadows._

 _Yet, is was this secret war that brought me to the Colonies, that brought me to you. So, I wonder if we would have ever met if I was just any ordinary person? Perhaps, perhaps not._

 _Of all the mistakes I have made in my life, there is none that I regret the most than driving you away. It has haunted me all these days since. I wish, fervently to make amends to that, but I know there is no way I can now. Though, I hope someday these letters will find their way into our son's hands and he (hopefully) will read them, and maybe understand a little bit more about me. Since I leave him nothing in way of a proper inheritance other than my journal and whatever he wants to salvage from my humble house._

 _With that, I will tell you what I should have told you years ago. Maybe it would have made a difference in the way things turned out between us. Regardless, I still feel as if I should have told you what I truly feel._

 _I love you._

 _Yours truly,_

 _Haytham_

 _September 14, 1781_

* * *

Aveline found Connor that night, sitting by the fire of their room at the inn. Tears dripping from his cheeks and more leaking from his eyes. He tried to speak but failed, and Aveline saw the letters cluttered at Connor's feet. She spoke no words, merely set the candle down on the floor and hugged him. He clung to her and cried. Cried for all that he had lost. And Aveline cried, though it was for Connor and the shattered pieces of his heart.

* * *

 **I was playing AC3 today, and while I was getting ready for bed I had this idea that Connor and Aveline snoop through Haytham's house in Boston and they find a tiny chest filled with unsent letters that Haytham wrote to Ziio. Stuff that he didn't put in his journal for one reason or another. Originally, they were going to be love letters, but then they became more of him talking to her about stuff. Anyway…. Happy 4** **th** **of July! :D**

 **Save an author, leave a review!**

 **-Nemo**


	50. For a Friend

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

The streets were quiet. Few people were about at this late hour, though they did see a few carriages rumble along the lane. They were almost to his house when Charles stopped, grabbing Pierre by the arm. "Pierre," Charles asked, dropping the formalities for a moment.

"What is it pisspot?" Bellec asked arching a brow. Charles glanced up at the window, there was a light still on. He'd have to talk with the governess later, about allowing Arno to stay up so late. "Charlie?" Bellec asked. Charles Dorian looked at Bellec then.

"If… If I were to fall," Charles began, "please take care of Arno."

"You… you want me to take care of your boy?" Bellec asked, balking at the responsibility of minding the curious young boy. "You won't die, Charlie," Bellec said patting Charles on the back. "So, don't even think about such things. Besides, I'm sure Marie will see sense and come back any day now."

"It's been six years since she left," Charles said, his tone bitter and heartbroken. "I've accepted reality Pierre; Marie is never coming back to France… back to me."

Bellec didn't know what to say to that; he remained silent. "Arno's a good boy," Bellec finally said.

"He's curious as a cat," Charles chuckled, thinking of his son. "But you're dodging the issue, Pierre. I want you to be his guardian if anything should happen to me. Marie was right… what I'm doing is dangerous… I could die and then who will take care of my son?"

"You're worried about the exchange tomorrow," Bellec said, realizing why Charles had brought up this suddenly. "Is that what this is about? That damn exchange happening at the palace tomorrow?"

"Part of it," Charles said.  
"You're worrying too much pisspot," Bellec said. "It's a simple exchange. Even if the Assassin is English, nothing horrible is going to happen. Just keep it close and once you leave the palace head straight for the Sanctuary and give it to the Mentor."

"I know," Charles muttered, rubbing his forehead. "I'm probably worrying for nothing, but still," he fixed Bellec with a stare, "promise me you'll look after Arno."

"You aren't going to let me go unless I give you my solemn oath, eh?" Bellec asked with a chuckle. Charles quirked a brief smile. "Alright," he said, "I swear to you Charles, that if anything happened, I'll take in Arno. Raise him as my own."

"Thank you," Charles said, patting Bellec on the shoulder. "I'm sure nothing will befall me, but I'll sleep more soundly knowing Arno will be cared for if something does."

"Fair enough," Bellec said. He bade Charles good night, slipping into the shadows as the young nobleman entered his house. Bellec hoped that Charles fears were unfounded.

* * *

The news was a crushing blow. Charles Dorian dead. The Precursor Box stolen. Bellec couldn't believe it. It was supposed to be a routine transfer. They had been exchanging the box for decades this way. How did the Templars find Charles? Which Templar killed him? "Arno…" Bellec whispered as he stared at the table. He was in Paris, he had to get to Versailles and find Arno. "What about Arno?" he asked.

"Who?" the Mentor asked.

"Arno Dorian! Charles' son, what became of him?" Bellec asked. The Mentor shrugged.

"Nobody knows, the boy's gone," the Mentor said. Bellec swore and stood up. "Where do you think you're going Pierre?" the Mentor asked as Bellec began to walk off.

"I'm going to Versailles to find Arno," Bellec snapped and left the council chamber.

The journey to Versailles was a swift one, Bellec feared he'd kill the horses he rode, forcing them to gallop until they were exhausted then getting a fresh beast at the first inn he came upon. He went to Charles' house in Versailles, but the ownership had already been transferred to someone else, all of Charles' staff gone into the wind. He stopped at the Versailles Sanctuary but none of the assassins there could tell him where Arno had gone.

Bellec turned his attention to the street children, the orphans and the peasants' brats. He asked around, describing Arno as best he could. They shook their heads, asking their friends if they had seen a boy that matched the description. Nothing. Bellec swore colorfully and spun around nearly running into a man. "I'm sorry, Monsieur," Bellec muttered bowing a little bit. The man sniffed.

"You should be," the nobleman said, "you should watch where you are going next time. Olivier, come!" the nobleman said.

"Boy," the nobleman's butler shouted, snapping his fingers. A boy jerked away from some apples for sale and trotted up to the butler. Bellec did a double take, thinking the boy looked like Arno, but decided against it. Arno was a nobleman's son; he would be dressed in finery not servant's clothes. Bellec sighed, walking along, cursing himself for leaving Versailles that fateful morning.

Bellec headed towards the graveyard that morning. He found Charles' grave. Name, date of birth and death etched into the stone, the Dorian family crest emblazon at the top. Bellec placed flowers over his friend's grave. "I'm sorry Charles," Bellec whispered, "I failed. I… I lost Arno." Bellec sighed, "I hope wherever he is, that he is safe and grows up to avenge you… one day."

* * *

 **So, I was looking through some blogs, and one had a bunch of headcanons about Bellec, when I got this idea. What if Charles made Bellec promise to take care of Arno if he died? And Bellec failed to fulfill that because he was away from Versailles at the time and couldn't take Arno in? And what if Bellec never was able to find Arno?**

 **So this.**

 **Plus, I got into a moral argument with my folks. And I'm sad-mad about it still so… argh. So, I'm listening to Inmate 4859 by Sabaton from their album** _ **Heroes**_ **.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo**

 **PS: Yes, Bellec did run into M. de le Serre, Olivier and Arno.**


	51. Hands

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Aveline always remembered a person's hands. Hands could say what voice and words could not. Hands showed a person's life at a glance. Aveline learned early on that hands spoke louder and truer than anything a person could have said.

Her mother's hands spoke of a life of hardship. A life of a slave, then freed. A life of terror at the prospect of becoming an assassin and the advances of a man she cared about but did not love. They spoke of motherhood, and kindness, warmth and love. Beneath these warm emotions, Jeanne's hands spoke of a great sadness at being forced to leave Aveline behind, raised by a woman who would betray Jeanne the first chance she got.

Aveline remembered her father's hands. Kind and strong, though unworn by a labourer's life. They smelled of powder, soft as kid skin. They would rest upon her head and tell her how precious she was and how frustrated that he was that his family and their society looked down upon her for both her sex and color of her skin.

Philippe's hands spoke of the love he had for Jeanne and for Aveline, and the regret that he could not have done more for the woman he loved. Such was the way of their society. Such was the blind folly that men clung too so desperately. Those were the things Aveline learned from her father's hands, and as he lay, dying of poison in his bed, she held his hands and felt all the love he could not speak of in his fingers.

Madaeleine's hands spoke of her lies and secrets. They spoke of how she pretended to be the doting step-mother, yet was secretly the ruthless Grand Master of the New Orleans's Rite. If only Aveline had listened to Madaeleine's hands sooner, she may have been able to save her father and put a stop to the Company Man earlier. Alas, such things were always clearer in hindsight.

Yet, despite this, Madaeleine's hands did hold some kindness. Her hands did soothe the nightmares. Her hands helped guide Aveline when she transitions from girlhood to womanhood. Those hands taught her to wield her feminine wiles like an invisible sword. Though Templar hands they were, Aveline could not deny that they taught her many valuable lessons.

Agaté's hands told Aveline of the life he had as a slave. They taught her the ways of the Assassin, inducted her into the Brotherhood. Though his hands were demanding, they were kind. Aveline figured this was due for the love of he had for her mother, the love his hands showed Jeanne's daughter, as he guided her through the Brotherhood. Agaté's hands taught her the mixing of poisons, the secrets of the bayou.

His hands also spoke of betrayal, her mother spurring him, and Aveline's own treachery. His death was an ache in her chest. He was like an uncle to her. It made it a bitter pill to swallow when she realized that if she had only listened to him, she could have found the Company Man faster, and his death may have been avoided.

Gérald's hands, Aveline came to respect. Though his hands were better suited for desk work and book keeping that actual combat. They were kind hands and spoke of wanting to bring their friendship into something deeper. Aveline tried to tell him, but she figured she'd let her hands do the talking. Gérald's hands spoke of how he disliked the fact that he was nothing but a friend to her, yet respected her choices.

Aveline will always remember how Gérald's hands clenched and clenched, when she introduced him to the man she was to marry. Frustration, anger, joy, sorrow. Those emotions screamed loudly from his hands as he stared at the man hailing from the north.

Connor's hands told an altogether different story than the hands Aveline had known. They spoke of a life without a mother's love, a father's guidance. Yet despite the crucible of his life, Connor's hands were gentle. They reminded her of worn wood, rubbed smooth after years of handling.

They spoke of a warrior's path. The blood of Templars dripping down his fingers. The blood of his father, a man he barely even knew. His hands spoke of regret and very little happiness. Some much lost was etched into his hands, Connor's hands shed the tears that he wouldn't.

Aveline remembered seeing the gentleness in Connor's hands the first time. They had found a doe in the forest, struggling with a difficult birth of her fawn. Aveline watched as Connor spoke softly to the frightened animal, his hands telling her _Be at peace, I'm a friend_. The doe allowed Connor to assist her, and Aveline watched as he helped birth the little fawn. She told him then, after the little fawn had found its way to its feet, that she was pregnant. Connor's hands expressed his joy much better than his failing words.

And now Aveline thinks of the stories the hands of her children will tell. Zéphyrine's hands are so small and soft. Barely touched by life. Her son, Edwin's hands clutch his father's fingers as he teeters on feet still unused to walking. Her children's hands speak only of love and trust for her and Connor. And it's when she's holding the hands of her children that Aveline finally knows peace.

* * *

 **Tea Logic gave me prompts for Connorline. One of them was "hands". I couldn't figure out how to properly do it until last night. :3**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo**


	52. Pick Up Lines

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Arno found Ezio sitting by the fountain, regaling some girls with tales of his daring-dos and adventures. He walked up to his friend. "Ezio, I need to speak to you."

"I'm busy, Arno," Ezio replied. Arno cleared his throat.

"Ladies, if you hurry now, Connor just took off his shirt and is still working out," Arno lied. The girls gasped, and bolted off in the direction of the gym. Ezio frowned.

"Fine, whaddya want?" Ezio sighed, slightly annoyed.

"I need an ice-breaker… it's Élise."

"You mean that girl you've had a crush on since second grade? The French Lit. major? Maria's friend?"

"Yes, her," Arno said. "We broke up in high school, she moved to Quebec, and… well, now she's back in the States and—"

"Say no more _mio_ _amico_ ," Ezio said as he stood up and slung his arm around Arno, "say no more. I have you covered."

"Am I going to regret this?" Arno asked.

"When have I _ever_ gave you bad advice?" Ezio asked.

"You've given Jacob bad advice before," Arno pointed out.

"Jacob Frye is his own worst enemy," Ezio said, "he's a human disaster. All I do is give him some guidance."

"You make fun of the fact I'm French," Arno said.

"Oh yeah," Ezio said, grinning like a loon. "Hey, hey Arno, how do you say 'yes yes' in French?"

" _Je vais vous frapper dans le bite_ ," Arno said, pushing Ezio's arm off of his shoulders. "That's how."

"You're no fun anymore," Ezio grumbled. "Jacob always found that joke funny."

"Élise," Arno reminded Ezio.

"Right, right, _smettere di essere cos_ _ì_ _invandante_. So, you want to break the ice with Élise," Ezio said. Arno nodded. "All you have to do to start the conversation is going up to her and say: Are you from France? Because madaaaaame!" Ezio said, "and then wink at her."

"Don't say that Arno," Sofia said, walking up to them, her book-bag slung across her shoulder. "Just go up to Élise, say hi and ask her how her studies are going."

"Don't listen to Sofia, Arno," Ezio said, "Élise has a sense of humor and she'll find it amusing."

"Well, I…" Arno stammered, not sure who's advice to follow.

"Anyway, Sofia and I must be going, _buona fortuna,_ Arno!" Ezio said and lead Sofia off, falling into a rapid conversation in Italian. Arno swallowed before heading back to his dorm room.

* * *

He found Élise at the campus bar that night, sitting by herself and reading a book. He struggled for a moment with who's advice to listen to and decided he'd figure that out when actually got to Élise. He sighed and walked up to her. Élise heard him approach, lifted her head and beamed at him. "Arno, hi!" Élise said, cheerful.

 _Ezio's… definitely Ezio's._ Arno cleared his throat and said: "Are you from France? Because madaaaaame!" and winked.

The smile fell from Élise's face, she stood up and closed her book with a methodical rigidness that belied her anger. "After all these years," she said as she poured her drink over his head, "that is what you say to me, Arno?"

"Élise," Arno said, humiliated and hurt as Élise walked off. "Damn him!" Arno growled, realizing that he should have listened to Sofia. He then went to the bar and proceeded to get drunk.

* * *

Arno came out of his stupor in the wee hours of the morning. Connor had picked him up and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes because he saw Connor's ass and the sidewalk. "Uuuuh…." Arno moaned.

"I would appreciate it if you did not vomit all over my backside, Arno," Connor said. "We are almost to the dorm." Connor added and Arno sighed, closing his eyes and tried to will away the pounding in his head. He doesn't remember ever reaching the dorm after Connor said they would, and he woke up around noon the next day with Connor and the Frye twins leaning over him.

"You okay, Arno?" Jacob asked. "Did Ezio pull one over you?"

"Go away and leave me here to die!" Arno wailed, rolling away from his friends. "I am a horrible human being! Do not look upon me! Leave me and spare yourselves!"

"I dare say he's still drunk," Jacob said. Connor pulled Arno over and shook him. Arno's head flopped back and forth.

"Dear God Connor, you're gonna kill him!" Evie shouted. Connor looked at her.

"No, continue Connor! Snap my neck! I don't deserve to live!" Arno said.

"Arno, you're being overly dramatic! It's not the end of the world!" Evie said.

"Yes, it is! Élise will never speak to me again!" Arno said. "She's going to marry that fucking twat Byron Jackson and I'm going to die alone—" Connor hauled Arno to his feet and lead him into the bathroom.

"Connor, what are you doing?" Evie interjected.

"He's going to sober him up, Evie," Jacob supplied.

"—and miserable with fifteen cats and my body won't be found and by the time it is my cats will have gnawed on my bones!"

Connor dunked Arno's head into the toilet bowl and held him there until he started to thrash. Connor pulled him out and Arno, gasping for breath pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. "What the fucking fuck Connor!"

"Are you sober yet?" Connor asked. Arno was about to speak but Connor shoved his head back into the toilet bowl.

"Flush the toilet Connor, that's how you give people swirlies," Jacob shouted from the living room.

"Jacob!" Evie hissed.

"Do it, Connor!"

"Jacob, don't encourage him!"

Connor pulled Arno's head out of the water again. "Well?" he asked. Arno pulled free of Connor's grip and glared at him.

"Yes, was that necessary?" Arno asked. Connor shrugged.

"That is what Grandpa Edward said to do in order to sober up people," Connor said, "though he said to use a horse trough."

"Dunking a person's head in water won't sober them up any faster, Connor," Evie said, "now, Arno are you going to be alright?"

"Or does Connor here need to dunk your head in the toilet again?" Jacob asked.

"I'll… no, I'm not alright! I should have never listened to Ezio! Now Élise will never speak to me and—"

"Marry that fucking twat Byron Jackson, meanwhile you'll live a lonely miserable life with fifteen cats, die with nobody realizing it and by the time they do find your body, your cats will have gnawed on your bones," Jacob said, "you were very particular on those details."

"Thank you, Jacob," Arno said, sitting on the bathroom floor, "but you aren't helping!"

"I try," Jacob mumbled.

"Arno, if you want to make it up to Élise, bring her some roses, apologize for being an ass and ask her out for some coffee."

"Élise doesn't really like roses," Arno mumbled.

"Then what does she like?" Evie asked.

"Books," Arno said, "Élise has always love books."

"Then get her a book," Evie suggested. "It's not the end of the world, and don't listen to Ezio about relationships… or Jacob for that matter."

"Hey, I resent that Evie." Jacob piped. Arno chuckled.

* * *

He found Élise at the café the next day, nose in a book. He ran his thumbs of the leather bound cover of the book he bought her before walking up and sitting down. Élise noticed him, glared and was about to get up when he stilled her, placing his hand on hers. "Élise, here me out," Arno said. Élise sat back down but the scowl didn't leave her face. "I'm sorry for acting like an ass that other night and to make it up to you, I… go you this," he presented her the book, "it's _Clockwork Lives_ by Kevin Anderson and Neil Peart… it's like _The Canterbury Tales_ only… steampunk."

Élise's face lit up at the sight of the book and she gleefully accepted it from Arno. She sniffed the pages, sighing in delight at the smell of binding glue, paper and ink. "Oh, Arno it's a lovely copy!" Élise said. "I accept your apology," she added. Arno breathed a sigh of relief. "Evie already told me everything."

"Wait… what?" Arno asked. "You and Evie are—"

"Friends. Yes. Me, Evie and Aveline are all friends. She already told me that you that I was going to marry Byron, and that you'll alone and get eaten by your cats."

"Traitor," Arno muttered. Élise giggled. "So… would you like a cup of coffee? M-Maybe we can talk about our studies and—" Élise leaned over and kissed him.

"Yes." Élise said, smiling at Arno. "I would love to rekindle our rel—"

"Arno, Arno!" Ezio shouted, shoving his way over to their table. "Arno, amico mio! Connor told me what happened and—" Élise punched Ezio in the jaw.

"That's for telling my boyfriend horrible pick-up lines!" Élise snarled, then grabbed Arno by the bicep and hauled him to his feet. "C'mon, Arno. Let's go somewhere where the company is better," Élise said and they left the café hand in hand.

"All I was going to say was sorry," Ezio muttered. "Well, I guess in the end, it did work. He got the girl after all."

* * *

 **This was supposed to be short. Just a quick thing. It's seven pages. I can't write Ezio. I can't really right anyone of these guys in a modern setting, save more maybe Evie and Jacob and Connor. This is crack. Enjoy, leave reviews, get drunk and be merry!**

 **Save an author; leave a review**

 **nemo et nihil**

 **PS: Edited it, because a friend wanted to see more Ezio. :3**


	53. Coupon

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"What do you mean my coupon isn't good here?" Haytham asked, outraged. Connor groaned beside him, eyeing the people that walked by. They were stopped at a Texaco station and his father had to make a scene. "This coupon says it's good for one package of McBella's String Cheese." Haytham waved the package of string cheese in the face of the clerk. "This is the string cheese being offered by the coupon is it not?"

"Yes, but sir—"

"Then why can't I use my coupon!" Haytham thundered, slamming his fist down on the table. "I bought five items and it says right here that if I buy five or more items from any Texaco I get this package of string cheese for free."

"Yes, but sir, the fine print—"

"I demand that I speak to the manager!"

"There is no manager sir, there's just me," the clerk said. "And as I'm trying to tell you the fine print—"

"I don't bloody care what the fine print says!" Haytham said, waving the glossy coupon in the clerk's face. Connor tugged his hoodie down over his eyes, praying for the ground to just open up and swallow him. Hopefully nobody from school saw him, especially Aveline. He'd hate it if the pretty girl from New Orleans saw him right now. They were gathering a crowd, gawking mothers with their children, impatient truck drives with their 2 liter bottles of Coco-Cola or Pepsi, college students with their cases of cheap crappy beer. Everyone was wondering about this crazy man that was holding up the line.

"Limited time offer! I don't care if it's a limited time offer; you have to honor your agreement!" Haytham said.

"It also says participating Texaco stations. This particular station is not participating in it, while you are within the offer time frame we—"

"Do you have any idea just exactly who I am?" Haytham asked.

"N-No, sir… should I?" the clerk asked.

"I'm a lawyer," Haytham hissed, impassioned. "And a damn good one. The best lawyer in all of Boston."

"Um… sir, this is Maine," the clerk mumbled. Connor couldn't take it anymore. He pulled out his wallet, fished a five from it and slapped it down on the counter.

"There, for the string cheese," he growled, grabbing the package of string cheese from his baffled father's grip. He grabbed the plastic bag from the counter top. "Let's go Dad."

"Right," Haytham said, he took a few steps stared at the clerk, "you'll be hearing from my office Monday morning." He said with a glare at the clerk before leaving the little gas station.

They got into the car. "Did you really have to make a fuss about the coupon?" Connor asked.

"It's a matter of principle, son," Haytham said as he started the engine. "Matter of principle."

Connor rolled his eyes as he opened the package of string cheese. "You would not have made a fuss if Mom was with us."

"Of course not," Haytham said, "your mother would be the one making it."

Connor stared at his father as he opened a string cheese packet. "Right," Connor agreed, voice dripping sarcasm.

"Give me one of those, please," Haytham asked. Connor sighed, giving the one he had just open to his father before opening another one. "Thank you," Haytham said and they proceeded to continue on their way to Boston.

* * *

 **Inspired by this line from Tea Logic: Haytham is literally that dad who gets pissed off when his coupon for cheese don't work at tesco**

 **I just couldn't help myself! It was too funny. Connor's sixteen. He and Haytham were up doing father-son bonding in Maine for the weekend.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	54. Starlight

**Assassin's Creed (c)**

* * *

It was gone. Arno bit his lip as he threw the dresser doors open and rifled through the clothes hanging up, hands slipping into pockets just to make sure. He kept coming up empty. "No, no, no, no," he muttered, his search becoming more frantic and panic drive. " _No!_ " he slammed the doors closed. "I could have sworn I left it on the table!"

"Left what on the table?" Élise asked, stretching out cat-like on the bed, her flame red hair cascading down her milk white skin.

"My father's watch," Arno ran his hand through hair, "it's missing."

Élise's blood ran cold. She had taken his watch last week to the watchmaker to get it fixed since the poor thing had been through hell and back. It had stopped working after the fight with Germain. She had plan to give it to him today, as a birthday present. "Oh, pity," she said, trying to sound concern. "Well, I'm sure it's around the café somewhere or you may have left it in the Sanctuary, on your desk."

"No, I didn't leave it in the sanctuary," Arno hissed.

Élise sat up, drawing the blankets up to her chest. "Arno, we'll find it, but you shouldn't stress, I mean it's your birthday and—"

"That what is all I have left of my father!" Arno snapped. "I don't even have a portrait of him like you do. That watch is all I have." He walked over to the bed and flopped on it. Élise gave him a sad smile before falling onto his back. She kissed his nape.

"We'll find it," she said. "But," she added, "I need to go shopping for something, I want you to come with me."

"You want to drag me around Paris, on my birthday?" Arno asked, his voice muffled by the covers.

"Yes," she said, a mischievous grin on her face. "Unless you prefer to stay here and be miserable. I need your help picking out your birthday present."

"Hmm." Arno rolled over on to his back. "I know what I want for my birthday."

"Oh?" Élise asked. "And what does Master Assassin Arno Dorian want for his birthday?"

"Well, she has red hair, blue-green eyes, skin the color of milk, a fiery temper and rather impulsive, a smile befitting a she-devil, she's also stubborn as a bull and just as rash," Arno said, twirling a finger around one of Élise's red curls.

"She sounds awfully familiar," Élise said, mock suspicion in her voice, "do I know her?"

"I would hope so," Arno said, "I showed her last night seven different ways of giving pleasure."

"And she enjoyed it," Élise said, kissing him. "Well, I'll remember to wrap myself up for you tonight, Arno." She kissed him again. "But first, breakfast than shopping."

"Why are we doing what _you_ want to do when it's _my_ birthday?" Arno asked, sitting up.

"Alright, what _do_ you want to do, Arno?" Élise asked.

"We can stay in bed until tomorrow," Arno said.

"Doing what?"

"Well, I had to proof read this passage in de Sade's latest book and it wasn't that bad and—"

"Nope!" Élise said, pushing him away. "Shopping it is."

* * *

Élise couldn't remember the last time she and Arno had just wandered Paris's streets together or any city streets together for that matter. Probably back when they were children, and they lived in Versailles. Élise smiled, enjoying the sun on her face, Arno's hand clasping hers and the drone of voices around her. She had no problems pressing down on her shoulders, no Germain looming over her, her heart was light and before her stretched a bright future with Arno by her side.

"I'll have to admit, I'm enjoying myself," Arno said, squeezing her hand. Élise beamed at him. "It's nice to just walk the streets of Paris from time to time. See how everything is done."

"Spoken like a true gentleman," Élise teased. "Before I know it, you'll be saying we need to live in a big mansion with a hundred and fifty-seven rooms, a small village of servants and a small army of guards."

Arno laughed. Élise's heart nearly soared from her chest, it had been so long since Arno laughed from pure undiluted joy. "Élise," Arno looked at her, "are you saying that you are unhappy with my small room at the Café Théâtre?"

"No," Élise said. "I'm perfectly pleased with it. It suits you… suits _us_."

"It does," Arno agreed, "those the number of rooms the mansion has is rather exact. I mean, what would we do with a mansion that big?"

"I don't have the faintest idea," Élise laughed. "Ooh, look, a pastry shop! Let's get some cake."

"We can share a slice," Arno said, allowing Élise to drag him through the crowd to the small little pastry shop. The plump shop owner beamed at them and presented Élise with a fine selection of cakes. Arno glanced about, watching everyone.

"You like strawberries right?"

"Not like you," Arno replied, leaning up against the wall.

"Well he doesn't have any cherries," Élise said.

"Strawberries will be fine then," Arno sighed. Élise purchased a slice of vanilla and strawberry cake. They sat down at the little table outside the shop, forks clattering on the surface.

"Say aw," Élise chimed, grinning as she offered Arno a forkful of the cake. Arno happily accepted it, humming in approval.

"That is good cake," he said, before taking the other fork and scooped up a bit and offered it to Élise. They sat there, chatting and feeding each other cake, enjoying the Parisian sunshine.

They left the shop after finishing, and Élise made a mental note to see if there wasn't a way to hire the pastry chef for the café. They stopped off at a bookshop, then a blacksmith, and lastly the came to the watchsmith's shop.

"Why are we stopping here?" Arno asked.

"I thought you wanted a new watch?" Élise said. Arno frowned.

"No, I want to find my father's watch, not replace it," Arno grumbled. Élise huffed.

"Well, fine. I thought you may want one from me as well," Élise said, Arno eyed her and she simply shrugged her shoulders. "Wait here then," she added, Arno gave a little nod, and Élise entered the shop, bell chiming overhead.

The inside of the watch shop was dim, clocks of all shapes and sizes and makes filled the space, tick-tocking the time away either at a fast past or a slow pace. Élise found the sound maddening. The bent-cover greying watchsmith appeared from the back. "Ah, Mademoiselle! You spared me the trouble of sending a courier," the man said, his voice whisper-soft and feather light, as if he was afraid to disturbed the sanctity of time.

"It's complete?" Élise asked. The watchsmith nodded and pulled out a pewter tray with a red velvet cloth atop it. He pulled the edges back on the cloth to reveal Arno's watch, polished until it gleamed and Élise could see her reflection in it. "You… your work is beautiful," she said, picking up the watch. She popped it open, the old velvet on the inside had been replaced with new velvet the same shade, the glass that protected the gears and hands had been replaced and the fine hands had been polished. The broken bits and parts had been lovingly remade.

"The watch still has most of the original gears, the rest had to be replaced, but it was a joy to work on, mademoiselle," the watchsmith said, "a sheer joy."

"Thank you," Élise said, putting the watch in the little box the man offered her. She watched him as he wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with a brown string. She gave him the rest of the payment. "Thank you again," Élise said.

"May I make on inquiry mademoiselle?" the watchsmith asked.

"Certainly," Élise said, glancing at Arno, who peeked at her through the window.

"Where did you happen upon such an exquisitely crafted watch? It has a most unique symbol on the back," the man said.

"A friend," Élise said, a forced smile on her lips. "Thank you again." She left and Arno stared at the little wrapped box in her hands.

"You didn't?" he asked as she lead the way through the crowd. He trotted after her. "Élise did you really buy me a new watch?"

"Arno," Élise said, she had never noticed any symbol on the back of Arno's watch and he never mentioned the watch being linked to the Brotherhood. As far as Élise knew it was just a plain pocket watch once owned by Charles Dorian. "Let's go home," she said.

"Alright," Arno glanced at the sky. "It is a bit late," he said, taking Élise's hand as they headed back to the café.

* * *

They shared a quiet dinner, the kitchen staff pulling out all the stops for Arno's birthday. Arno mumbled a soft _you didn't have to_ as they served him. Élise found the gesture sweet and wished she could have helped prepare the meal, but she was dreadful at cooking.

After dinner they lounged outside on the balcony of Arno's room. The moon was full and the night clear. Élise stood up and retreated into the room. "Where are you going?" Arno asked as Élise left his side. He stayed seated there though as she told him she'd be right back. He watched her retrieve the box she had bought from the watchsmith's shop. "Élise," he sighed. They had yet to find his father's watch.

Élise smiled at him and sat back down next to him, snuggling close. "Here," she said, handing him the box. Arno sighed taking it from her with a soft thank you. He tugged the string lose, peeled back the paper before lifting the wooden lid.

He froze.

Nestled in red velvet was his father's watch, polish and gleaming in the moonlight as if it was brand new. "Élise…" Arno began, gently taking the watch out of the case, he even noticed that a chain had been reattached to the watch. "Élise… I… how… when?" Arno asked, looking at her.

Élise smiled. "You kept complaining that it wasn't keeping time and that the glass was cracked after the fight with Germain, so… a few weeks ago I… I took it," Élise bowed her head in shame. "You didn't notice at first and I was hoping the smith would get it done before you noticed it was gone. He repaired and restored it." She licked her lips. "I hope you like it."

"It's beautiful, it looks like it was new. I never saw it new though. Father said he had had it since before he met my mother," Arno whispered and popped the watch open, smiling as the needle thing hands ticked away the time.

There was a loud pop in the sky and a flash of color. "Fireworks," Élise said, surprised to see the display as she twisted around. Arno smiled.

"Did you set this up too?" he asked, slipping his watch into his pocket and threading the chain through a buttonhole.

"No," Élise said, "but… do you like it?"

"Yes," Arno said, nuzzling her cheek before kissing her. "Thank you, Élise."

"Happy birthday Arno."

* * *

 **Normally, I don't like writing spur of the moment birthday fics, but since I found out TODAY that its Arno's birthday** **I just HAD to write him something. :D**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	55. Music Night

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Boots thunked against the deck, boisterous laughter, and loud jeering singing drifted down to the one of the cabin's on the Morrígan. Haytham frowned, wondering why they have stopped. Have they become becalmed, did a sail tear? It was unlike Shay to just stop in the middle of the ocean. They had a mission to complete, and time was of the essence. He closed his journal, snapped his inkwell close, set his quill down before getting up to investigate.

He came topside to a starry night, the auroras shimmering like a multi-colored serpent in the sky. The night was cold and crisp, a chill breeze buffed him and he blew on his hands to keep them warm and pulled his coat around him tighter. The night sky was clear as crystal and the north Atlantic was black as ink and glass smooth, small icebergs drifted pass, blue-white in the darkness, a sliver of moon was overhead.

One the deck was the off-duty members of the Morrígan's crew, they had gathered all the lanterns in the center, two had fiddles and a few others had tin whistles, the rest kept time with stomps and claps and sang along to whatever song they were currently singing. Tankards of grog were in hands or near at hand on barrels. A few of the men were even dancing. "Ah, evening Master Kenway," Gist called from his game of cards. Haytham scowled at Shay's first mate.

"Oi, Haytham!" Shay shouted, raising his tankard. "Bloody glad ya could join us!" The Morrígan's captain walked over, a wide grin on his face. He clapped Haytham on the back in an overly friendly manner. "I was 'bout ta come an' getcha, can't be havin' ya a stick in th' mud on Music Night!" Shay turned and gave a sharp whistle. "Oi, Sean get the Grand Master a tankard an' fill her up!"

Sean nodded, scooped up an empty tankard and filled it with grog, he trotted over and shoved it into Haytham's hands. He had no choice but to accept the sailor's brew and the lad flashed him a grin and ran back to the circle of lantern light. "Shay, what is the meaning of this?" Haytham hissed, glaring at Shay then at his grog then at Gist then back at Shay. He was torn who was he more bad at, Gist for not bring Shay in line or Shay for even pulling a stunt like this. "We have a mission at hand, we have to get to the precursor site _before_ the Assassins do," Haytham said, "or have you forgotten that?"

"We'll get there," Shay said, "but it's Saturday night, an' that means its music night, come, be merry, I'm sure ya know a few good songs, considering ya da was a pirate."

"Please," Haytham said tightly, "do not speak of my father."

"Cap'n! Its ya turn!" one of the sailors shouted, waving Shay back over to the crowd. The sailors began to request songs from the raunchy and crude to the heartbreaking ballads that made them think of their lasses back home.

Shay held up his hands, cleared his throat and began to sing, " _In Banbridge Town in the_ _County Down_ _,_ _one morning last July,_ _from a boreen green came a sweet colleen_ _and she smiled as she passed me by._ _She looked so sweet from her two bare feet_ _,_ _to the sheen of her nut brown hair._ _Such a coaxing elf, sure I shook myself_ _for to see I was really there!_ "

Haytham was surprised out how rich Shay's voice, it was deep with just the perfect amount of gravel and his Irish came out pronounced but added to the charm of the song. It suddenly brought back memories of his boyhood, when he would go out on the streets of London and the few Irish that dwelled in the city would sing. Haytham eyed his grog and took a small sip.

"Does this always happen?" Haytham asked, inching closer to Gist. The Templar looked up from his cards and stared at his Grand Master.

"Oh, aye," Gist agreed, "Every Saturday night. Apparently, Shay did this when he was an Assassin, kept moral up. He didn't see why he should stop the tradition just because he's a Templar now. The men that have night an' mornin' watches are all abed now."

"He has a good voice," Haytham muttered, watching as Shay finished _The Star of the County Down_. He gave a flourishing bow, grabbed a tankard and drained it's contains. Haytham watched the Irishman's Adam's apple bob with each swallow. Shay bounded over to them.

"C'mon Haytham," Shay said.

"You will address me as Master Kenway or sir," Haytham said tightly. Shay rolled his eyes.

"Haytham," Shay said, "ya need ta drink! Ya ha'en't e'en touched ya grog!" Shay said, trying to push the tankard towards Haytham's mouth. The Grand Master took a step back and scowled.

"Shay, I order you to stop this nonsense. These men need to get to bed, we need to get wind back in our sails and start moving if we are to beat the Assassins."

"Th' Morrígan is th' fastest ship in th' North Atlantic, Achilles is not gunna beat us to it," Shay boasted, "if anythin' we'll get there at th' same time."

"Regardless, I would like to be there _before_ they get there," Haytham said. "So, I order you to call off this foolish frivolity!"

Shay gave Haytham a wicked good grin as he slung his arm over Haytham's shoulders. "Haytham, Haytham, Haytham," Shay said.

"Your drunk," Haytham commented.

"Oh, aye, good an' plastered," Shay grinned, "but that's beside the point. Ya are the Grand Master, an' I respect that, true. But we're on th' Morrígan, an' th' Morrígan is bein' my ship, an' I bein' her cap'n, thus my word aboard th' Morrígan is law an' trumps yours," Shay said, he patted Haytham's chest. "So, I say, fuck off Haytham, its Saturday night an' we're havin' Music Night. If ya want ta be a sour-puss, go back ta ya cabin an' pout, but if ya don't, drink up an' entertain us with a song."

"I'm not singing!" Haytham hissed.

"An't so bad once ya good an' drunk," Shay turned to his crew, "is it lads?" he asked.

"No!" the crew shouted, raising their tankards and clanking them together before taking long swallows of their brew. Shay laughed and turned to Haytham.

"Hear that Haytham? An't so bad," Shay said, gave Haytham one more friendly pat before he went back to his crew. Haytham stared at his tankard, torn between joining the merriment and going back to his cabin.

"Sir," Gist said, Haytham looked at the Morrígan's first mate, "there are times when ya just have to say fuck it."

"I know," Haytham said, staring at the tankard, and if he looked long enough he could see his father, the mast of the Jackdaw II, hear Jenny's laughter, when the world stretched before him and he lived his life by the Creed… a time best left buried and forgotten like his father's body.

"Fuck it," Haytham said and guzzled his tankard of grog.

* * *

 **So, I bought the sea shanty soundtrack for Black Flag and Rogue, and I got this idea that Shay (and Edward) both had music night on the ship.**

 **I'm prior Navy and Saturday nights were always the fun night, we had pizza, chicken wings, ice cream and after dinner there was a game night or karaoke. And then Sunday was just really chill. So, I thought, what if this is like a tradition stretching back for generations of sailors? So, Saturday nights are music nights on the Jackdaw and Morrígan!**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	56. Fancy Words

**Assassin's Creed (c) Unity**

* * *

"I think I'm pretentious," Arno said, staring at Élise. They were at the campus café, taking a well deserve break from cram session before finals. Élise flicked her eyes up from her tome of French Literature.

"And why do you say that?" she asked, a fine brow arched in askance.

"Because I still can't bring myself to say _grande_ or _venti_ at Starbucks," Arno said, he sipped his coffee. "Is my petty refusal pretentious as their fake words?"

Élise stared at him for a few moments before bursting into a fit of giggles, closing her book. "You're not pretentious Arno," Élise said. "I can't either. The only one that doesn't sound pretentious is _tall_ , and that's for a small." She rolled her eyes, "The other two I can't even associate."

He grabbed her hand, remembering why he loved her so much. They got each other on such a level they could have conversations about Starbucks and their system for sizes of coffee. "I know! And when you try to order a _medium_ , they'll repeat back to you: 'Okay that's one _grande_ coming up!'"

"Right!" Élise said, "They really try to drill it into you, like they won't taste the same if you don't call them that."

"I guess we're both pretentious for our petty refuse to use Starbucks' fake fancy words," Arno said. Élise snickered, grinning up at him.

"Yeah, I guess we are."

* * *

…

 **I hit the "fuck it" button.**

 **And I wrote this.**

 **Dan, Catherine… please forgive this humble fan.**

 **I'm going to go die in a hole now.**

 **Save an author; leave a review**

 **Nemo et nihil**


	57. Tea at Midnight

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _At happened so fast, he barely had time to register what had happened. One minute his father's hands are around his throat squeezing the life out of him, the next he's staggering back, blood gushing out from between his fingers. Connor hears pieces of what his father is saying. He has noble qualities, courage, commitment… but the life is fading from Haytham's slate colored eyes, his white neck cloth stained crimson._

 _Then it hits Connor, like the cannon balls bombarding the fort. His father is dying. He stabbed his father and his father is dying. "Father!" Connor breathes, scrambling towards Haytham, pulling the dying man into his arms. He presses his hand against Haytham's throat, frantically trying to stop the bleeding._

 _Red gushes forth, Haytham's breathing is ragged and shallow, his skin too pale. There is so much blood, so much blood. It coats Connor's fingers, soaks the leather of his gloves, splashes on his coat. Why won't the blood stop, he has to make it stop!_

 _A cannon ball whistles by, living an acidic stench of gunpowder in its wake. Still the bleeding won't stop. "Hold on Father, hold on," Connor mumbles, but he doesn't think his father hears him. A part of him yells at him to leaving the dying Templar and flee the fort before he's crushed in the rubble, the other part of him… the stubborn part refuses to budge and desperately tries to save the last member of his family. "Please, hold on," Connor begs. He should have reconciled, should have extended his hand in peace and understanding, not rage and prejudice._

 _"I should have… killed you… long ago…" Haytham whispers with his final breath. Thunder sounds, a cannon ball comes whizzing towards him, Connor's eyes grow wide and_ _—_

He sits up in bed, lightning flashing and thunder rumbling overhead. He's in his room at the Homestead, very much alive, the old wound on his side acting up again. "Just a dream, just a dream," he says to himself as he tugs on a shirt and crawls out of bed. He has no idea what time it is, but heads downstairs to make some tea to help calm his nerves.

Connor is surprised to see a shadowy figure at his table. His senses on alert as he tries to figure out who is also in the house with him. He has none of his weapons, but his fists are still good so the intruder will face a challenge. The figure looks over in his direction and says, "Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

Connor stops, the sound of his name holding him in place. No one outside his tribe ever uses his name save for one person. "Aveline," he asks, "what are you doing up?" he comes into the kitchen to see his friend sitting there, a cup of tea in her hands. Aveline offers him a small smile.

"Couldn't sleep, you?" she asks, sipping her tea.

"Same," Connor says and joins her at the table. She sets her tea down, before getting up and making him a cup. She hands it to him and he cradles it in his large hands. He could hear the patter of rain, the rumble of thunder and suddenly they are illuminated in the bright white light of the lightning bolt. Aveline's hair is in a frizzy tail at her nape, a scarf about her head in an attempt to tame it, her shift hands loosely on her shoulders, her mother's locket around her throat.

They sit there in silence, drinking their tea, taking comfort in each other's company. "I had that dream again," Connor mumbles. "The one where I try to save my father."

"Do you miss him?" Aveline asks. Connor sighs, tired.

"Regret is a better feeling," Connor replies. "He lost his father… felt that the Brotherhood betrayed him… so much hate and blood… my mother was his only solace but he was too blind to see it." Connor sips his tea, mulling over his dream, his father's journals, the ten thousand what-ifs that plague is mind in these soft hours of the night. "In my dream I try to save him, but the bleeding would not stop. There was so much blood Aveline, so much blood. He did not beg me to spare him… he never does, but I plead with him to hold on… to not leave me just yet."

Aveline listens in silence, sipping her tea, waiting until Connor has finished sharing his dream. "I'm sorry, Ratonhnhaké:ton," she says. "I know it's inadequate, but… it's all I can say." She faced her own legion of demons at night. Her hands were stained red with the people she cared about. "Madaeleine… she raised me as her own daughter. Taught me things a mother would teacher her daughter. How to be strong, to be brave, to use my womanly wiles to my advantage, to think for myself," Aveline sighs. "I… I loved her as any daughter would. I came to her when I had my first broken heart, my first bleeding… the first time I realized I'm from two worlds yet belonging to neither."

Aveline looked at Connor. "I killed her," she whispers, "I told myself at the time it was for the greater good, for all of mankind. She was the Company Man, the Grand Master… she took escaped slaved and placed them in a gilded cage."

"Yet?" Connor asks. Aveline sighs, staring into her tea.

"And yet she only ever showed me love and kindness. She was a Templar and she wanted to control the world, but she'd hold me after the nightmares, sing me lullabies… I wish I didn't have to kill her."

"You did what you had to do," Connor says.

"But was it the right thing?" Aveline asks, she takes Connor's hand in her own and he squeezes it.

"We can only trust in our own hands, and hope that our actions are right," Connor says. "My father… while we met not under the best of circumstances he… did not kill me when he had the chance. He was not the kindest of people but… I like to think in his own way he showed me love. He felt bad when he told me of Washington's betrayal. He wanted to make amends." Connor sips his tea. "In the end he bled like any other man, in the end he was human and flawed like the rest of us. Templar… Assassin… take those titles away and what is left?"

"People?" Aveline guesses, not sure where this was going.

"Yes," he says, "people. Both sides are people in the end."

"Indeed," Aveline agrees, remembering all the times Madaeleine comforted her.

"Why do you not call me Connor like everyone else?" Connor asked.

"Do you want me to?" Aveline asks, her green eyes wide as she stares at him. Connor sips his tea.

"I… I like that you use my name… my real name," he says. "It is nice to hear it, makes me remember my mother's people… where I came from, why I began this journey, why I still fight."

"I'm glad, because I like it too," Aveline finishes her tea and leans over the table, pressing her lips softly against his cheek. "Goodnight, Ratonhnhaké:ton." She gets up from the table and heads off to her room. Connor watches her go, a smile on his lips.

"Goodnight, Aveline," he whispers.

* * *

 **I came up with this idea last night. I'm trying to work around my block on United We Stand, and I felt that maybe I should revisit the Kenways. So, here's this thing. I** _ **may**_ **get my lazy butt in gear and work on the next chapter for EKGTCR but I make no promises. I also feel the need to revisit the Fryes, so Differences may get updated.**

 **I'm just need to take a break from France right now.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	58. Desire's Flame

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Julien looked up from his sketch book when his sister barged into the room. He noted she was wearing their mother's Templar pendant before going back to his drawing book. "What do you want Charlotte?"

"What are you doing?" Charlotte asked, gliding across the floor to him and leaning over his shoulder, purposely getting into his light.

"You're in my light, Charlie," Julien grumbled. Charlotte smirked. Julien sighed, sticking his pencil between the pages and closing the book. "I _was_ drawing," he said.

"What were you drawing?" Charlotte asked. "Naked women?"

Julien flushed. "That's none of your business," the fifteen-year-old boy said. Charlotte laughed, clapping her hands in her mirth. "Papa says Léon is coming home tonight," Julien said, smirking when his sister instantly sobered.

"He is?" Charlotte asked, her voice a bit higher than she intended. Julien nodded slowly, the smirk widening across his face. "Did… Did Papa say when Léon is expected?"

"I wonder what Raphaël would think if he knew you liked Léon," Julien teased.

"I _don't like_ Léon," Charlotte hissed, her cheeks turning pink. Julien snickered.

"Of course not," he agreed, "you _love_ him."

"I don't love him, Julien!" Charlotte hissed. Julien arched his brow, a knowing smirk on his face. "I don't!" Charlotte insisted.

Julien cleared his throat with a little cough. " _Papa when is Léon coming home? Papa must you_ really _send Léon all the way to Venice? Papa do you think Léon brought me back a present? Mama what do you think of this dress, will Léon like it? Mama can I show Léon that_ _—_ "

"I don't sound like that!" Charlotte screeched grabbing for her brother, but Julien twisted free of her grip and gave his sister a mocking little bow.

"Yes you do," Julien said. "You pine after him when he's gone and then when he is here, you ignore him."

"I don't ignore him," Charlotte said. "And I don't pine."

"Uh-huh," Julien pulled out folded piece of paper from his pocket, " _Léon, I simply cannot bear this separation. My heart aches for you, I long to see your smile, the dimples in your cheeks and your_ _—_ "

"Give me that!" Charlotte screeched, snatching the paper from her brother. Her jaw dropped when she realized it was blank. "You little cheat!" Charlotte hissed. Julien grinned before bolting. Charlotte ran after him.

Julien slid down the railing and landed with a little job on the bottom floor. To his right was the hustle and bustle of the café, to his left were his parents' studies. He glanced up at the top floor and saw his sister. "Better hide," Julien muttered to himself and slipped into the thong of people.

Charlotte trotted down the stairs, glancing about for her brother. "Charlie!" a voice called to her. Charlotte turned to see Jacques.

"Jacques, have you seen where Julien went?" Charlotte asked. Jacques swallowed as a blushed colored his cheeks.

"No, I haven't," Jacques said. "H-How did your Templar initiation ceremony go?"

"Fine," Charlotte said, a proud smile gracing her lips. "Mama said I was wonderful and that everyone was honored to welcome the daughter of the Grand Master into the Order."

"Is she grooming you to be Grand Master?" Jacques asked. Charlotte wrinkled her nose.

"Why do you want to know?" she asked. "Do you plan to run and tell my father?"

"N-No," Jacques shook his head. "No, it's just—"

"There you are Charlotte," Arno said, walking up to his daughter. "I have news you'd be eager to hear."

"I already know Léon is coming home this evening, Papa," Charlotte said, a smile on her lips. "Julien told me, have you seen him?"

"No, I haven't," Arno said. Charlotte frowned. "You know you need to give Léon an answer."

"I will give him an answer when I'm ready," Charlotte hissed. "I'm twenty."

"Yes, and he's been waiting three years," Arno said.

"My heart is my own, Papa, as is my choice of husband," Charlotte hissed before walking off. Arno blinked, before chuckling softly.

"She is so much like her mother," Arno whispered.

* * *

Charlotte stopped playing the harpsichord, the wrong note quivering jarringly in the air. "I know you're there," she growled, flicking her blue-green eyes up at the shadows. The figure stepped out of them, a cock-sure smile on his lips. Charlotte's eyes grew wide when she saw him. "Léon!" she shouted, getting up and running over to him. She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. "I wasn't expecting you until the evening! How long have you been here?"

"Not long," Léon said, holding Charlotte's hands and kissing them affectionately. "You look beautiful."

Charlotte blushed. "Thank you," she whispered, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. "How was your trip?"

"Well, I accomplished what I set out to do," Léon said, tracing her throat down to her collarbone and lightly touching the red cross pendant at her throat. "I see you've chosen your side. Élise must be pleased."

"She is," Charlotte said, "Papa was a bit… disappointed." Charlotte flicked her eyes up to Léon. "Have you spoken with Mama and Papa?"

"Not yet," Léon said, he grabbed her hands again. "I wanted to see you first." Charlotte blushed at his words. "You play beautifully."

"Mama insisted I learn," Charlotte said, "she said that while the majority of my lessons may be history and mathematics, I should still learn music, dance and needlework. She said, sometimes the best disguise is the simplest one."

"Wise words," Léon said, "Assassins are taught to hide in plain sight, seen yet unseen."

"I think she took a leaf from Papa's book then," Charlotte grinned. "So did you bring me a present?" she asked, the girlish excitement of her youth bubbling up. Léon chuckled.

"I did," he said and pulled from his pocket a small box. "Here, open it," he said, handing the item over to Charlotte. She grinned, muttering a soft thank you before opening it. She gasped.

"Pearls," she breathed, "I love pearls… Papa gave me some pearl earrings when I was fifteen. They are my favorite."

"Bahraini sweet water pearls," Léon said, taking the rope from her hands and putting it on her neck. Charlotte lifted her hair to allow him to clasp it at her nape.

"These must've coast a fortune," Charlotte said.

"Only a small one," Léon teased. "Beautiful," he told her. Charlotte blushed. "I'm sure Raphaël will be pleased to see you bedecked in pearls and fine jewels from exotic lands."

Charlotte flushed. "Raphaël is… kind," she said, choosing her words with care. "But then again he's kind to any pretty girl of good breeding."

"And Templar," Léon quipped. Charlotte snorted, tracing the pearls at her throat.

"I expect you want an answer in exchange for this lovely gift," Charlotte said, her voice terse. "Papa reminded me."

"You'll give me an answer when you're ready," Léon said with a little shrug, before inspecting the hidden blade at his wrist. "I've waited this long, I can wait longer."

"You're eleven years my senior," Charlotte whispered.

"The heart cares not about age," Léon said, "besides there have been matches with greater disparity in age."

"You're an Assassin, I'm a Templar," Charlotte said.

"Your parents," Léon said, circling her. "Maria Thorpe and Altaïr ibn La'Ahad? I can name more."

"We were raised together… as siblings."

"You know I always had trouble view you and Julien as my siblings," Léon said, touching her shoulder lightly as he walked behind her. "Especially you."

"Jacques likes me," Charlotte said, "as does Raphaël."

"Didn't Napoleon predict you'd break hearts?" Léon asked. "Do you even like them?"

"Jacques has been my friend since childhood. Raphaël has… well," Charlotte blushed, "I can't really say we're courting, since Papa loathes him and Mama is suspicious of his father."

"You're running out of excuses, Charlie," Léon purred in her ear.

"How long can you wait? It's been three years," Charlotte asked.

"As long as I need to," Léon replied, smiling, "long enough for you to realize you've ran out of excuses."

"My heart is my own," Charlotte declared, "as is my choice of husband."

"You know I'll accept whatever answer you give me," Léon said.

"Why do I have to give you an answer? What if I choose to remain silent and let you wait?" Charlotte asked.

"You'll give me an answer," Léon said with a little shrug, "sooner or later. I'm patient."

"You enjoy this game," Charlotte hissed. Léon smiled. "Don't you?"

"I admit, you have a clever tongue and a sharp wit. I do enjoy seeing you think your way around my questions," Léon said, "but tell me Charlotte, when did you stop seeing me as the doting older brother?"

Charlotte bowed her head, as a blushed colored her cheeks. "Fifteen… sixteen maybe. Whenever you gave me that book of Greek myths," Charlotte said, looking up at him. "It was in Greek, and when I bemoaned that fact to Mama, she told me that it'll be good practice for me to translate it. I think I wrote you a letter in Greek as punishment."

Léon laughed. Charlotte found that the sound sent shivers down her spine. "I remember that letter," Léon said. "It took me an hour to translate it. Your command of Greek is dreadful."

Charlotte smirked. "Then I was smart to send you a letter in Greek."

"You are a sharp one," Léon said, "I'll give you that Charlotte Dorian."

"Careful now," Charlotte said, putting her hand on Léon's shoulder, "that you don't cut yourself Léon de la Serre. Even the prettiest roses have their thorns."

"And it's because of those thorns that those pretty roses are worth plucking," Léon said, pulling Charlotte close to him. "Come now Charlotte," Léon said, pressing his cheek against hers. "Let's cease this senseless dance. You and I both know there is desire between us."

Charlotte kissed him then, longing and soulful. She pulled away and stared into his grey eyes. "Aw, Léon," she whispered, "then what fun would we have without this dance between us?"

* * *

 **Yes, this is the same Leon from Franciade, he's all grown up. Yes, this is tied into the plotline of United We Stand. For United We Stand followers, Leon chose to have Elise's surname of de la Serre as his own.**

 **Originally planning the dynamics between Léon, Charlotte and Julien, I was leaning towards that Léon has feelings for Charlotte but Charlotte never returns them and Léon just quietly accepts it and is kinda like her guardian protector.**

 **While Arno and Élise did their best to raise Léon in such a way that he would feel like he is a member of the family, he was nine (according to my headcanon), and was very aware that he wasn't their biological child (he never refers to them as his parents or when speaking with Charlotte and/or Julien as "our parents"). Regardless, he does love Arno and Élise, Charlotte and Julien. They are the family he always wanted.**

 **Charlotte's original romantic elements were originally Jacques and Raphaël. Jacques has an unrequited crush on her, while Charlotte and Raphaël's relationship is still this strange friendship with a dash of romance. Originally, Charlotte only ever saw Léon as a brother. Then I wrote another oneshot where all Charlotte could babble about was Léon and how she missed him and if he brought her a present from Berlin (read** _ **Mystery of Life**_ **), and that's when I realized that maybe Charlotte could have a romance between her and Léon.**

 **I haven't decided if I'll keep this idea or trash it. But for now, it's intriguing. There is an eleven-year age gap between her and Léon, but people ship Shay and Aveline (weird) and there's a sixteen-year age gap between them.**

 **As for Léon's family name, Ubisoft didn't give him one, so at the time that Élise and Arno adopted him, they weren't married so they said he could choose between Dorian and de la Serre. He chose de la Serre for his surname.**

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	59. Child of Time

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

It was dark, quiet, only the shadows for comfort and… the _visions_. The little boy shuddered at the thought of those ethereal images, cities of gold and glass, shimmering like distant jewels before his eyes. A woman… no an angel more like, fleeting and ghostly. They made his head hurt. He didn't like them, wanted them to go away.

He told his parents about the images, the baker, the candlestick maker, the butcher down the road, random people that he met, the priest, and the members of the silversmith guild his father was belonged to. Everyone saw spectral images of cities, right? People started to whisper that he was mad or possessed by demons. It didn't help that he had two different colored eyes.

"Sure sign of demonic possession, Madame." The priest had told his mother. "I recommend an exorcism."

His parents, desperate to cover the scandal, agreed. Their only other option was to send him to the madhouse. The priest had written to Rome, and a few months later, a bishop and three priests came. They held him down, chanting in Latin, the bishop holding his bible aloft. The boy only wanted his mother, screaming and reaching for her. The holy water was cold and dripped into his eyes, mixing with his tears. The boy didn't remember how long the ceremony went on, but he tired out eventually, falling into a heap of snot and muffled sobs, throat horse from screaming.

He only looked up when his mother's arms wrapped around him, her teary face relieved as she thanked the holy men for saving him. The bishop and the priests smiled, telling her that the devil had been cast out of him, that he should have no more demonic visions.

He had no visions for a week.

Then the returned.

He learned though, and kept his mouth shut. Finding solace in working alongside his father. _I'm not mad, I'm not mad, I'm not mad!_ He would think to himself whenever the visions came. His parents would be no help, they'd either call the bishop and his priests back or send him to the madhouse. Instead, he tried to write down the images his saw or channel the feelings into the simple work he'd produce.

They helped, but they didn't chase away those scintillating towers of glass and gold or the angel, whose name was always on the tip of his tongue along with a feeling of almost-remembrance.

Only solitude and the shadows seemed to truly do anything for him. He sat now in the corner of a dark room, sniffling. His parents found out that he'd been having the visions again. He could hear his father yelling, trying to convince his mother to send him to the madhouse in rural France. His mother begged his father to speak to the Church again, surely they'll be able to cast out this new demon.

"I'm not mad, I'm not mad, I'm not _mad_!" the boy muttered, as he hugged his knees tighter. He kept repeating it to himself, in an effort to drown out his parents' shouts. He stopped, when it was all he could hear. Footsteps echoed down the corridor and he could see a pair of feet beneath the door.

It opened.

A gentleman stood in the doorway, a velvet coat of deepest black with silver buttons and buckles and white stockings, a black wood cane in one had with a silver top in the shape of an eagle. The gentleman had a boy with him, around the sobbing child's own age, but the gentleman's child stayed in the corridor, peering curiously into the gloom. "Are you François-Thomas?" the gentleman asked.

The boy looked up at the gentleman's face at the sound of his name, his blue and brown eyes growing wide. He swallowed. "I am."

The gentleman smiled. "I'm Jean-Pierre de la Serre," the gentleman said, a kind smile on his face as he knelt down to look at the small boy. "My word," he said, "your eyes."

"Sure sign of demonic possession," the sad boy muttered, "that's what the priest said anyway." He inched closer into the shadows, this strange rich man's kindness was a lie. He knew that the gentleman had come to take him away.

"No," Jean-Pierre said, "they are like Grand Master Jacques de Molay's."

At this the boy looked up, seeing this gentleman in a new light. "Jacques de Molay?" he never heard of that name before, "Can you take me to him? Can he make the visions stop?"

Jean-Pierre frowned. "I'm sorry dear boy, but Jacques de Molay has been dead for four hundred years."

"I see," the boy said, disappointed that there was no one alive like him that could tell him about what he is and why he saw things nobody else did. "I'm mad then."

"No," Jean-Pierre said, "not mad. You're gifted. Those visions are a gift."

"From whom then? God? Satan? I want them to stop! I want to be normal! I don't want anyone making fun of me anymore!" the boy hissed, curling up into a ball.

"They are a gift," Jean-Pierre said, "from whom, I cannot say. But I've heard of your remarkable gift and I've come to foster you, nurture your talent."

"I knew it," the boy said. "You're going to take me away."

"Not forever, you can still see your parents and they'll come and visit you. In time you'll take over your father's workshop," Jean-Pierre said as he got to his feet.

"Why should I go with you?" the boy asked, hostile and wary. Kind strangers were a lie, the priests and bishop acted kindly only to hold him down and treat him like he was some animal.

"I'm a part of a secret order that would value your gifts. None would shun you, none would think you're possessed by a demon, none would say you are mad."

The boy licked his lips, and watched as the gentleman's son came into the room. The boy was dressed similar to his father, his clothes brighter though, and his hair gleamed like flames. "Father, can we go?" the boy asked.

"In a moment François," the gentleman said. "François-Thomas this is my son, François de la Serre."

"He's weird Father," the de la Serre boy said, "his eyes are two different colors."

"François be nice," Jean-Pierre chided. "So, what do you say François-Thomas?"

"What's this order called, sir?" the blue-and-brown eyed boy ask.

"The Knights Templar."

* * *

 **Germain's childhood is rather depressing in my head. I also imagine François de la Serre to have red hair as well, since red hair is a recessive gene and its more plausible if both of Élise's parents had red hair. Considering, that Élise was going to be Grand Master after her father, I also imagine her grandfather was Grand Master.**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	60. The Cat and the Jackdaw

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

She didn't like the sea. It was much too big, much too wet, and it tasted horrible whenever she tried to drink it. The fish in the sea terrified her, blowing spray up at her as they nudged the little raft she was one. She meowed loudly, curling her stubby fluffy tail around her tiny little paws. She looked at the man on the raft, he never moved. He stopped moving some time ago, and death-stink came from him. _He smells just like Mama_ , she thought as she laid her ears back and gave a little hiss, her needle sharp milk-teeth gleaming pearly white in the Caribbean sun.

When her tummy got empty, she began to gnaw on the man. Eating the soft parts of him first, but she didn't like the taste and only took enough bites to keep the hunger away. She'd meow at any ship that sailed by, but the men on the ship never paid any attention to her. When it rained she'd lap at the puddles that appeared on the raft. The rain water was sweet. Sometimes a school of small fish would come and she'd try to fish one out from the ocean, but her hunting was unsuccessful, the man was starting to taste too funny so she stopped eating him.

She forgot how many days she was on the raft, floating among the endless waves when a ship finally stopped and hauled her little raft aboard. The men on board came to see her and the dead man. They muttered to each other in their strange tongue, tossing the man back over the side to the fish they called sharks. She had taken the first chance she got to bolt for the shadows, stubby little tail fluffed up. There she stayed huddled between two cool barrels. One of the barrels dripped, she sniffed it, smelling water and lapped at the drip until her thirst was quenched.

She jumped when footsteps came thumping over to her hiding spot, a big man with dark skin reached down for one of the barrels. She arched up, hissing as loudly as she could and swatted at his hand. He yelped, shaking his hand before peering over the barrels to see her. She hissed again, fluffing up her fur. Mama told her that if she made herself look big and scary, she'll be left alone. "What are ya doin' here?" the dark skinned man asked as he reached down for her. She hissed again, growling and swatted at him, but he avoided her paw and grabbed her by her scruff. She curled up, still growling as she looked at the big man that had caught her.

"Whatcha got there, Áddie?" another man asked. His hair was yellow like the sun with nut brown skin. His eyes reminded her of water.

"Found dis liddle stow-away," the man said. "She got me good."

The sun-haired man cooed, a smiling breaking across his face. "A kitty," he said, reaching for her. She growled low, for he smelled of blood and death, she hissed when he tried to grab her, but he ignored her warning and cupped her bottom as the big man handed her over. She chomped on the sun-haired man's thumb. "Ow, damn bloody cat," he growled, "don't do that." He bopped her swift and firm on the head. She let go, looking up at him. "See, I don't mean to hurt you," he said and began to pet her. It felt nice, like Mama's tongue when Mama gave her a bath. She began to purr, and lick at the wound she gave the man.

"What are ya gonna do with it, Edward?" the big man asked.

"Keep…" Edward stopped and lifted up her tail, "her," he said. She snorted, curling her tail around her tightly. Of course she was a little queen! She had four brothers, and they were all stupid toms. Mama says queens were the smartest. She mewed. "See, Áddie! She wants to stay," Edward said. "Plus she'll keep the rats away from the cargo," he added. "C'mon princess, let's get you some fish and water, betcha starving only having that dead tar for company. And you're such a wee thing too."

"Edward," the big man called, Edward turned and looked at him. "What are you gonna name her?"

"Um," Edward looked at her. Self-conscious she licked her coat, tasting salt on her fur, oh how she wished Mama was still here to lick her coat clean. She hoped the man didn't mind the orange splotches, the white socks and spot over her left eye, the notch in her ear from her older sister (she was form Mama's last litter), and the black blotches. She wasn't the prettiest thing, but the dead man had loved her. She purred loudly, knowing men liked it when she purred. "I do actually," he said and walked off.

She had a name now, and a home, this strange thing that men called a ship. The ship had a name too, _Jackdaw_ , and her duty was to keep the mice and rats away. She took great pride in keeping the keeping the mice and rats away from the items the men called cargo. All the men on the _Jackdaw_ liked her, and would give her milk or bits of fish, and she let them pet her and she purr for them. But her favorite spot on the ship was the captain's cabin. That is where she spent most of her days, that was where she had her kittens. Edward gave her kittens away when she weaned them. She didn't mind too much, she liked it best when it was just her and him.

Like tonight. She had sat down in front of the door and meowed until one of the sailors opened it for her. She thrilled a thank you, tail flicking high into the air and she wandered it. Edward was curled up in his bed, a candle glowing. He was staring at paper with strange scribbles on it. He told her it was a book and that he was reading. She gave him a slow blink, but had no idea what the purpose was of such activity. Humans, she determined, are very strange. She meowed until he looked at her. "Hello lovely," he said and patted his stomach. "C'mon, up." She trilled and hopped up onto his stomach, curling up, tail covering her nose.

She purred. He still smelled of blood and death, but he also smelled of salt and rum. The smells were home. His calloused hand gentle stroked her fur from head to tail. She stretched, yawning, taking comfort in his contact. "Good girl," he said, "Nermallion."

* * *

 **I wanted Edward to have a cat on the Jackdaw.**

 **Nermallion from Tumblr gave me permission to name the cat after her.**

 **I wrote in the cat's POV because I didn't know how to do it from Edward's. I like it better like this. :3**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	61. Silver Bands

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Germain winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. The visions shimmered, superimposing themselves over the dancers of the ball. He breathed, counting down the seconds until they vanished. "You alright, Thomas?" François asked. Germain gave a little gasp, taking a few steps back, François' sudden appearance startling.

"Yes, I'm fine," Germain said, accepting the glass of wine François offered him. "Just another one."

"Oh," François sipped his wine, "I didn't know they were bad. I wouldn't've asked you to come."

"It's alright," Germain said, "I'm glad to have come. Got me out of the workshop. Speaking of the party, why aren't you dancing, Grand Master?"

"Don't call me that," François growled, narrowing his eyes. "And… well, it's because of her." François gestured with his chin to a young woman with brilliant red hair, the color of flames. "She's… Venus incarnate."

Germain laughed. "You? Poetry? Since when François, since when?"

"I'm serious, Thomas! She's beautiful as the goddess of love herself!" François said, a wistful sigh escaping his lips. Germain arched a brow.

"Uh-huh, and what is this Venus' name, by chance?"

"Julie de la Croix," François sighed. "Alas, she's with someone." François pouted like a schoolboy denied a treat.

"You could always cut in," Germain suggested, nudging François. The other man balked, paling a bit. "Or do you want me to do it for you?"

"François-Thomas!" François growled. Germain smirked, drained the rest of his wine and handed his empty glass to François before heading towards the mysterious woman that had François so smitten.

Upon approach, Germain did realize that Julie de la Croix was indeed beautiful, with her flame red ringlets and blue-green eyes and that smile fit for a she-devil. He was surprised more men weren't falling over their feet to try to woo her. Her company, was plain in comparison to her with brown hair and a face that was easily forgotten.

Germain waltz up to the couple and tapped Julie on the shoulder. "Mind if I cut in?" he asked.

"Actually, sir—" her companion said.

"Frederick," Julie shushed, smiling up at Germain. "I'd be honor to have this dance with you, monsieur…"

"Oh, I'm not the one wanting to dance with you," Germain said, placing a hand over his chest. "I'm sorry if I gave you that impression mademoiselle. It's him," Germain pointed to François over there in a corner, torn between scowling and hiding. "Alas, he's much too shy to go and ask you to dance himself, so… I'm doing it for him."

"I see," Julie muttered, then frowned, sniffing. "Well, he can come and ask me to dance himself, until then I refuse."

"Very well," Germain said, "may I have this dance then? Since I clearly interrupted your previous one?"

"May I have your name?" Julie asked. Germain smiled, inclining his head and scooped up her hand. He made an extravagant show of kissing her hand, glancing over to where François stood in the corner.

"Certainly, mademoiselle," he said, "my name is François-Thomas Germain, Son orfèvrerie royale Majesté." He kissed her hand again.

"Julie de la Croix," she replied, giving him a little curtsy. Germain pulled her close, one hand on the small of her back and was about to lead when François marched over, a scowl on his face.

"I don't know what game you're playing Thomas, but enough!" he said, then looked at Julie. "I'm terribly sorry mademoiselle," François said tugging at his waistcoat, "but I must interrupt you dance again, for… I would enjoy a dance with you, and appreciate it much more than my friend here.

"Oh," Julie said, stepping away from Germain. "Will you?"

"Indeed," François glanced at his feet, "where are my manners. I'm François de la Serre, and I'd be honored if you'd have this dance with me."

"Julie," Frederick whined. Germain arched a brow, glancing between the two.

"Frederick, stop it," Julie said, and accepted François' hand, "I'd be honored Monsieur de la Serre, considering Monsieur Germain went through all that trouble to get you to dance with me."

"He did, yes," François agreed, "it would be a pity if his efforts would go to waste." He took her hand and lead he away to the dance floor.

A year later and Germain wasn't surprised to see François in his shop. " _Mon ami_ , what brings you to my humble shop."

"Humble shop my foot Thomas," François grumbled, "you're the bloody king's royal silversmith."

"Your father was right," Germain said, "I had a gift. The visions help my craft stunning works of art in silver. Do you need another badge of office?"

"No," François shook his head, "I need something more personal."

"Personal?" Germain asked with a frown. "What do you need?"

"Rings," François said, "I need wedding rings… well, an engagement ring… I asked Julie to marry me. She said yes of course, her family highly encouraged the match. What with the de la Croixes and de la Serres both being Templars, and of good breeding… I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

Germain chuckled. "I'd be honored. Anything in particular?"

"Something… to compliment her eyes, nothing fancy mind you, she's not fond of such things, simple yet elegant," François said. "A few diamonds maybe, small ones."

"Should be simple enough," Germain said, "normally I don't do—"

"I can pay you, Thomas. That's not a problem."

"Don't bother with payment. We're friends, I'd be happy to do this for you. I just need her ring size."

"Here, it's hers," François said. "Of course, you already know my ring size."

"Yes, I'll have them done as quickly as possible, three weeks?"

"Good, good," François breathed a sigh of relief, "thank you, Thomas."

"Anything for a friend," Germain said.

* * *

 **So, I totally fucked up on their ages. I'm pretty sure Ubisoft kept Germain's historical birth year (1726), making him 7 years older than François. Buuuuut, I don't really care right now. Since it messes up the first one. Which I may or may not rewrite in light of the new information. (the fix will be utterly easy)**

 **So, we get this.**

 **I actually like this, these two as friends. There's one in the middle with François and Germain sneaking into the Temple and Germain finding de Molay's writings, but when I figure out how to write that, I will get it done.**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	62. Innocence

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Arno missed her already: he missed her giggle, her bright blue-green eyes, the cascading red curls, the way she had _bye Arno!_ when his father had come back from the meeting. He missed her smile most of all. Arno hoped he'd get to see her again. He sighed, knowing that may never be the case, and he set the little tin soldier down on top of the box his father had brought. Papa had told him not to touch it, and he wasn't but it did make an excellent vantage point for his soldiers.

"Arno." Charles walked in pausing to see what his son had crafted, only to sigh in exasperation. "Arno, I told you not to play with this box. It's very important." Charles said, taking the tin soldiers from the box.

"But, Papa," Arno protested, "it's their vantage point! They need to be up high so they can see the battle!"

"Yes," Charles agreed as he set the soldiers down on the table. "But surely you can find another vantage point for your army, Grand Général, hmm?"

Arno huffed, disappointed that he was being forced to sacrifice the best vantage point. "I suppose I could've used some books," he mumbled. His father chuckled, placing a hand on his head.

"That's better, but you'll have to save your battle for later, we have to go out again," Charles said, digging into his pocket and pulling out his watch. "If we don't leave now we'll be late."

"Why do I have come? I don't wanna go," Arno protested, as his father walked away. He trotted to keep up with his father's longer strides. He reached the door and accepted the horrid green coat the butler held out for him.

"Because Arno," Charles sighed, "Madame Fleur is unable to watch you tonight, and I'm not about to leave you, a highly curious boy, alone in this large house by himself."

"But I can be left alone at the king's palace, which is bigger," Arno quipped. His father glared at him. "Sorry Papa," Arno mumbled, rubbing the left side of his nose.

"I expect you to be a good boy tonight, we're going to my gentlemen's club," Charles said, shrugging into his coat. Arno watched as he checked the gauntlet at his wrist; his father always wore it whenever they went out. Arno asked about it once but didn't get a clear answer. "Come Arno," Charles said, holding out his hand. Arno grasped his father's hand, smiling at the feeling of his father's warm large hand wrapped around his small one. The butler opened the door and they headed off into the gloaming.

About fifteen minutes later, they came to a door. It was an unassuming door, run-down and worn-out by the looks of it. It had a metal sliding peephole just wide enough for a pair of eyes. Arno looked around the dingy ally they stood in, wandering why his father's gentlemen's club meet in a place of such squalor. The grate slid back with a raspy clank. "The Aquila sees all in the sky," the man behind the door said.

"For the eye of La'Ahad is the brightest in the night," Charles answered. Arno frowned, unsure what the riddle meant, but his father had said the correct answer, for the grate slammed shut again and Arno could hear the sound of a lock being open.

"The Eyrie welcomes you, brother," the man said. Arno stared up at him, for he was dressed like the butcher in the market. "Your eaglet?" the man asked.

"He'll be good Jean," Charles said as he stepped in and tugged Arno along. "Won't you Arno?"

"Of course, Papa," Arno agreed, though his head swiveled about trying to take everything in. The interior was what he'd expect of a gentlemen's club: a merry fire burning in the fireplace, plush chairs, end-tables between them, paintings of important people that have long been dead, bookshelves, and a chess set in the center of the chairs. Arno even spied some hallways leading to other parts of the building. A man was standing by the fire, his maroon cloak dark against the shadows though the teal of his outfit stood out starkly against the more somber colors.

"Took ya long enough, pisspot," the man said.

"Pierre, please," Charles sighed, "not in front of my son."

"You brought him?" Bellec growled, crossing the room in three strides. Arno shrank against his father, finding Bellec intimidating, he rubbed his nose nervously as his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "Why?"

"Fleur was indisposed this evening," Charles said. "It'll be alright Pierre, Arno promised me he'll be a good boy, right?"

"Right, Papa," Arno agreed, eyeing Bellec uneasily.

"Bad enough we're hosting some Templars. One of them even brought their girl." Bellec rolled his eyes. "Someone ought to keep the little brat tied up! She's already poked her nose into more places than Mirabeau likes."

"I'm sure it'll be fine, Pierre," Charles said as he led Arno to a chair. Arno hopped into the plush seat, swinging his legs idly. He wouldn't need to go exploring beyond this room, there was already enough stuff to keep his small mind occupied. "I want you to stay here Arno. Don't go leaving this room understand?"

"Yes, Papa," Arno said, and held out his hands. Charles chuckled, smiling as he dug out his pocket watch. He popped it open.

"I'll be back when this hand makes it way to the top twice," Charles said, pointing to the big one. Arno sighed, realizing that he was going to be here for a rather long time. "It'll pass by quickly, I assure you."

"Unlikely if Mirabeau and de la Serre have their fucking way," Bellec grumbled. "We'll be here all night discussing how the king should wipe his goddamn fucking arse."

"Language, Pierre, please," Charles sighed, placing the watch in Arno's hand. "Stay here Arno. No exploring."

"Yes, Papa," Arno sighed, a little smile tugging at his lips. Charles returned it and ruffled Arno's hair before following Bellec down a hall and out of sight. Arno groaned, slumping in the chair, already bored. He missed Élise, wishing she was here to play with him. Maybe they could have a game of chess or pull the books down from the shelves to see what they contained. Arno sighed, slipping the watch into his pocket and hopped off the chair. He walked around, hand trailing along the backs of the chairs, eyes roaming over the calligraphic titles on the spines of the books. He came to a hallway, dark and ominous in appearance. Swallowing, Arno hopped to the other side, feeling a tightness ease in his chest. A giggle reached his ears and a slim hand grabbed his wrist, tugging him into the darkness. He didn't have time to scream in fright as his back slammed up against the wall of the other side, a finger against his lips. His eyes grew wide at the familiar sight of Élise.

"Ah," she said in a teasing whisper, "did I scare you?" Arno nodded mutely. "I'm sorry."

"Wh-…" Arno swallowed. "What are you doing here, Élise?" Arno asked. "Are you here with your father too?"

"My mother _and_ father this time," Élise said proudly. Arno blinked, surprised that she had a mother. "Arno?"

"Your mother… didn't go away?" Arno asked, hesitant. Élise wrinkled her nose cutely.

"No, why would she be?" Élise asked. Arno stayed quiet, looking at his feet, he rubbed his nose. "Is your mother dead?"

"Mmhmm." Arno nodded, looking away. "Papa says she went away when I was very little. I don't remember her." Arno looked up at Élise who pouted, clearly upset about his admission. She grabbed his hand and headed deeper into the dark hallway. "Élise! Where are we going?"

"To the adults silly! Don't you wanna see what they're talking about?" Élise asked, grinning at Arno in the darkness. Arno came to a halt, tugging Élise to a stop. "Arno?"

"We should head back," Arno said. His thoughts kept drifting to his mother, wondering why she left without him.

"Why?"

"I promised my father I'd stay put," Arno said. He didn't want another lecture like he got after getting home from the palace. "We can play chess or read some of those books." He gave Élise a little smile. The girl chewed her rosebud lip.

"Just a bit further," she whined. "Then we go back, I promise." She held out her hand, and Arno stared at it before glancing over his shoulder to see the glow of the fire. He grabbed her hand, her smile radiating mischievous joy.

They walked a few more feet before Arno yanked Élise to a stop. "Shh," he hissed, when she began to protest. The shadow before them slowly materialized into a man, with iron grey hair pulled back into a tail, and he wore a dark teal coat, a silver pin on the left breast. Arno squinted at him in the darkness, a bright red aura materializing around the stranger's edges. He swallowed, fear coiling in his gut. "Élise…"

"Thomas!" Élise chirped, drawing the man's attention to them. Élise took a few steps towards him but Arno tugged her back. "Arno, don't be such a baby. That's François-Thomas, my father's lieutenant, he's really nice," Élise said.

"I-I-I don't know," Arno said, tugging on Élise's hand. "Let's go back… he's scary… really scary."

"Élise?" Germain asked, arching a brow.

"Bye Thomas," Élise said, waving to Germain in the darkness as Arno tugged her back towards the room with the chess set.

They reached the room, the fire still burning away merrily. Arno couldn't look at Élise as he walked around the chairs, one hand in his pocket, a death grip on his father's watch. "Arno, what was that about?" Élise asked. "Thomas wasn't going to hurt you, he's my father's lieutenant. He's really nice, a bit odd, but nice."

Arno gave Élise a sad look before huffing. He didn't know how to explain it to her, that he saw things other people couldn't. That if he squinted at her, she had a golden aura about her, just like his father. He didn't want her to think he was weird. "I don't want to talk about it, I just… got a sense he was… bad," Arno said.

"Well, he's not!" Élise hissed. "Thomas is super nice, and you should apologize to him!"

"Okay," Arno mumbled. He glanced at her then at the chess set. "Do you know how to play chess?" he asked. Élise glanced at the chessboard and gave a little nod. The two children walked over to the board, sat down and began to play. The game lasted about twenty minutes, before Élise slid her knight in front of Arno's king.

"Checkmate," she chirped, a grin on her lips. "You're… not that good."

Arno bowed his head, blushing. "I… I don't play much chess. Papa… is busy a lot with his gentlemen's club." Élise snickered. "What?" Arno asked, bringing his head up. "What's so funny?"

"Do you _honestly_ believe your father is a member of a gentlemen's club? That this," she waved her hand at their surroundings, "is a building that hosts a gentlemen's club?"

Arno stared at her, unsure what she's getting at. "Yeah," he said, slowly with a nod. "What else _would_ my father being doing?"

"You really don't know do you?" she asked, her voice soft, as if she was shocked he didn't know what was common knowledge to her. Arno frowned, getting annoyed with this guessing game.

"No, I don't Élise," Arno said, "so tell me? _What_ don't I know?"

"My father… your father… they aren't apart of a gentlemen's club," Élise said, licking her lips. "They are a part of these… secret orders. My father is the Grand Master of the Knights Templar."

"The Knights Templar? Like the soldiers from the Crusades?" Arno asked. He heard about them, but also that they were disbanded by the Church centuries ago. Élise nodded. "But… the Church disbanded them…"

"The Templars just went underground," Élise said, pausing when she saw Arno's confused look. "They became more secretive. Anyway," she said, rushing pass that part, "your father is a part of the enemy order… the Assassins."

"My papa isn't a bad person" Arno protested. "He's not… an… an Assassin!"

"Does he have a special thing on his wrist that he _always_ wears?"

Arno paused thinking back to his father's gauntlet. "His gauntlet? He said my grandfather gave it to him," Arno pulled out his watch, "just like this watch, see?" he said showing it to Élise. She scooted over to him.

"That symbol on the watch," Élise said, tracing it with a slim finger. "My father says that the symbol of the Assassins." Élise looked at Arno, and preened a little. "He also says that when I grow up, I'll be the Grand Master, just like him."

Arno sighed, tracing the symbol. The secrets his father kept, the late nights, the meetings he wasn't allowed to attend, the special box his father brought home. It all made sense now. "I guess that means when I grow up I'll be an assassin, like my father, huh? We'll be enemies," Arno looked at her, "won't we?"

Élise looked at the fire, glanced at the doors before hugging Arno. "Only if you let them make us enemies. I don't think you're a bad person Arno. You're nice. I… I don't want us to grow up to be enemies," she said, looking at him earnestly.

"Me neither. I want us to be friends, forever."

"Yes," Élise agreed, nodding, "friends forever. The Templars and Assassins really want to make the world a better place for everyone. My mother says that if both sides work together we can achieve that dream. Maybe it has to start with us?"

Arno grinned. "Yes, with us." He leaned in forward and quickly nuzzled his nose against hers. Élise blushed in surprised, a wide grin spreading on her lips. Arno bowed his head, embarrassed. Élise chewed her lip, glancing about nervously before she pressed a quick kiss to Arno's cheek. They blushed. Arno's hand going to his cheek and Élise scooting away.

"So… why don't I show you some m-moves for chess…" Élise said, grabbing one of the queen pieces.

"Yeah, okay," Arno agreed, snapping out of his daze. Élise gave him a few lessons and they resumed their game of chess. Arno lost again, and got more tips, before another game, which he lost. Still, they continued to whittle away the minutes until the adults came back, passing the game with small talk of their home lives. Arno said a few phrases in German much to Élise's delight, and she said some things in English for him. They grew bored of chess soon and began to look through the books before that grew dull. In the end, they converted the chess pieces into makeshift soldiers, setting up a battle in front of the fire place.

The two children look up when they heard voices and footsteps. Arno pulled out his watch and gave a little smile, the big hand had made two loops around the face, just like his father said. "My papa will be back soon," Arno said, closing the watch in a ritualistic manner. "I'll have to go home then."

"Aww," Élise said, sitting up. "That's not fair. When will we see each other again?"

Arno shrugged. "Dunno, but I'm sure I don't have to leave yet."

"I'm telling you Charles, Mirabeau is a fucking arse! He cares more about his politics than about the Brotherhood!'

"Pierre, please. Mirabeau is Mentor and—"

"If you say he trusts François de la Serre, then maybe you are no better than a traitor!" Bellec said, stomping into the room. Arno and Élise jumped, Arno instinctively grabbing Élise's hand as the two adults came into the room.

"Ah, Arno," Charles said, smiling at his son. "Who's your new friend?"

"Éli—"

"Arno get away from her," Bellec snarled, marching up to the two children. "She's the little Templar brat!"

"But she's my friend!" Arno protested as Bellec yanked him and Élise apart.

"Assassins don't befriend Templars," Bellec snarled, and flicked his wrist blade out, the fire glinting off the Damascus steel, illuminating the whorls in the metal. Élise gasped, eyes growing wide as she was confronted by the blade. The little girl whimpered.

Arno yanked his arm free from Bellec's grip and ran to his father, tears threatening to spill over. Charles swore, grabbing Bellec's wrist and angling the blade away from Élise's neck.

"Damn you, Pierre. She's a mere child!" Charles hissed as more people filed into the room.

"Mama!" Élise cried, spotting her mother and running to her.

"She's a damn Templar, Charles! She was getting cozy with your boy and—"

"She's _still a child!_ " Charles snarled.

"Good heavens, what's going on here?" François de la Serre asked, as his daughter embraced her mother's skirts. His eyes fell on Bellec's wrist blade. "Were you threatening my daughter?" François asked, his voice icy. Arno swallowed, inching closer to his father.

"No," Charles growled, eyeing Bellec, "he wasn't. _Were you_ Pierre?"

Arno watched as Bellec's face went several shades of purple and red, before going white again. He withdrew his wrist blade, relaxing. "No," he finally said, "I wasn't."

"We were just playing Mama," Élise said, looking up at her mother. "He's nice too, I like him."

"Charles what is going on?" Mirabeau asked, coming from the other hallway, Arno spotted the man they met earlier. The one Élise said was her father's lieutenant. Mirabeau looked between the parties involved, noting the scowl on the faces of the two fathers and Bellec. "Pierre, did you _threaten_ the daughter of François de la Serre?"

"We were just playing!" Élise piped up, indignant. "He didn't have to pull his stupid hidden blade on me. I wasn't hurting anyone!"

"Élise," Julie chided gently.

"You _threatened_ her!" Mirabeau sputtered.

"I stopped him, Mentor," Charles said, stepping in. "Arno and Élise were indeed just playing. Pierre overreacted. He won't do that again, will you Pierre?"

"I don't need a lecture from you pisspot," Bellec growled. "That girl is dangerous, I tell you!"

"No she isn't!" Arno protested, stepping a bit out of his father's shadow. He glanced at the adults, swallowing and wishing he hadn't spoken up.

"She's not?" Bellec growled, looking at Arno. The boy swallowed, rubbing the side of his nose. "She's a Templar like the rest of them."

"No, she's not! She's nice, and my friend! We were just playing!" Arno protested.

"We should just let them play," Julie agreed, "they are just children."

"I'm not letting Arno play with your daughter!" Bellec growled.

"Last time I checked," Charles said tightly, "you aren't his father. _I am_ , and I see nothing wrong with letting the children play." Bellec opened his mouth several times, sputtering for an answer that never came.

"Besides," Arno piped up again, "Élise isn't the bad one." Arno glanced at her then over his shoulder to the man that stood apart from the crowd. In the firelight Arno noted that he had two different colored eyes. "He's the bad one," he said, pointing Germain out.

"Me?" Germain gasped, a hand covering his heart. François sputtered.

"Thomas has been my friend and lieutenant for years! Since we were boys, I trust him with my life," François looked at Arno. "What proof do you have boy?"

Arno swallowed, hung his head and drifted back behind his father, never taking his eyes off of Germain. He clung to the tails of his father's coat. "Arno?" Charles asked, his voice soft and gentle.

"I… I… he's red," Arno whispered, and rubbed his forehead against Charles' leg. "He's red, Papa. Red means bad, because it makes me feel sick."

"Dorian, what is the boy talking about?" François asked, while the three assassins present exchanged baffled glances.

"His vision is that developed," Bellec glanced at Arno then at Charles, "at his age already? Charles why didn't you tell us?"

"Charles, is the boy gifted?" Mirabeau asked. Arno glanced up at the adults, then to Élise who gave him another encouraging smile. He looked up when he felt his father's hand on his head. Arno caught a glimpsed of Germain once more and let out a soft whimper.

"Mentor, we'll discuss this later if you please," Charles said, "it's getting late. I need to get home and put Arno to bed."

Mirabeau sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Yes, yes, of course you're right Charles. We'll discuss this later."

"Come Arno, say good night to your friend," Charles said. Arno glanced up at his father and gave a little nod before peeking out and glancing at Élise.

"Bye Élise," Arno said, giving her a small wave. He wanted to say _see you tomorrow_ but he wasn't sure if he'll ever see her again. He turned to go, following his father when he heard Élise give a little squeak. He watched as she tore away from her mother, running up to him and hugging him. She nuzzled his cheek to guise the chaste pressing of her lips against his cheek.

"Bye Arno," she whispered into his ear before letting go. Arno felt his cheeks heat as he glanced up at his father. Charles merely smiled.

"Come Arno," he said, holding out his hand. Arno glanced back at Élise, who had rejoined her parents and gave her a little wave.

* * *

Arno shivered. The night was cold, the stars like icy diamonds hung over head, and the streets were illuminated by the half-moon. "I'm sure Jacqueline has a fire in your room all made up for you Arno," Charles said.

"When can I see Élise again?" Arno asked. He didn't care if there wasn't a fire in his room he just wanted to see Élise again.

"I don't know."

"Will you talk to her father?" Arno asked.

"I'll see what I can do," Charles said.

"That means no," Arno mumbled, dejected. Charles sighed, praying for patience.

"No, it means that I'll see if I can, he's a more important noble than I am, I may not be able to talk to him," Charles said as they rounded the corner to their house. Charles pulled Arno to a halt. Arno glanced at his father then at the dark street beyond. He could sense the profound wrongness of everything.

"Papa?" Arno asked softly as his father drew his sword. The shadow moved and a man stepped into the soft moonlight. Arno guessed he was a little older than his father, but had a scar over his right eye. Arno noted that he was holding the box he had been using earlier as a vantage point.

"Stay behind me Arno," Charles said, "and when I tell you to run, you run, understand?"

"Run to where?"

"It doesn't matter, just run and hide. I'll come find you."

"But Papa… I'm scared…" Arno muttered softly, swallowing a bit. He rubbed his nose again and pressed himself closer to his father. Charles pried Arno away and gave him a little shove. Arno took a step and stumbled, landing on his rump. "Papa…"

"Give me the box," Charles said, "and I'll spare you."

"No," the stranger said, drawing his two blades. Arno noted that they were a dagger and a sword.

"Arno, run!" Charles barked. Arno whimpered, scrambling to his feet, the cobblestones cold against his palms. He ran, skidding around the corner as he heard the clash of blades. He ducked, pressing himself against the shadows. The metal clanged in the still winter air. Arno never saw his father fight before and it was all rather frightening to him. Yet, silently he knew that his father would chase away the scary stranger, for his father was the strongest and bravest man ever to live.

The stranger was quick though. Arno noticed that the stranger moved almost like his father, and every now and then a flash of a blade would appear from his sleeve. Yet the stranger had a grace that his father lacked, a way of moving that only true battle could forge. "Come on, Papa! Beat him, beat him!" Arno whispered, hoping his little prayers reached his father.

The stranger lashed out, release the hidden blade. Charles leaned back to avoid it, but the stranger brought his other blade across, cutting Charles from hip to rib. " _Papa!_ " Arno screamed.

The strange paused, only to dance away from Charles' blade at the last second. Charles didn't spare a glance but shouted, "Run Arno!" before continuing to press the attack. Arno stood in the street to terrified to move. The stranger drew a pistol, leveled it at him, the ratchet of the dogshead broke the stillness. "No!" Charles scream, deflecting the stranger's arm overhead just as the gun went off. Arno yelped, covering his ears before turning his back on the battle and running.

Arno ran down the street, taking lefts and rights. "Élise!" he shouted, hoping she'd hear hm. He had no idea where her house was, but he guessed he she lived in the fancier part of Versailles. "Élise! Élise!" he glanced at the doors, but nothing seemed familiar. He had no idea where he was, no idea where she lived. He stopped, gasping for breath. "Élise!" he called again, slowly going around in a circle. "Élise!"

"Arno?" a voice called. Arno spun around in the direction, and there she was, standing in the street bathed in the light of the stars and moon. A look of concern was on her face, her gloved hands tangled together. "Arno, what's wrong?"

Arno felt his bottom lip tremble, he took one slow step then another before he out right ran to her, barreling into her. He clung to her sobbing. "Élise… Élise… Élise…" Arno muttered, sniffling, he snuggled closer to her when she began to awkwardly stroke his hair.

"Arno what's wrong?" Élise asked.

"Élise… what's the matter?" Julie asked.

"Is that the Dorian boy?" François glanced at the boy in his daughter's arms. "What's he doing out here? I thought his father took him home."

Arno pulled away and stared at Élise's parents. "My papa… he… someone… a-attack him… he's hurt… I… I… I'm scared…" Arno sobbed. Élise's parents' eyes grew wide.

"Julie, take the children home. I'll go see what's going on down at the Dorian estate."

"Be careful François," Julie said, as her husband trotted down the street. "Come you two, let's get you out of this cold." She placed her hand on each of the children's small backs and lead them down the street.

* * *

Arno sniffed, sitting on the couch in the warm de la Serre estate. Élise was next to him, staring at him in a worried fashion. In his left hand he clutched his father's watch and in his right he clutched her hand in a death-trip. Every now and then he would tremble, a small whimper escaping his lips. The events of the past hour seem unreal, he kept expecting his father to say something to break the abnormality, it never came though and the reality kept bearing down on Arno's small shoulders.

A shadow fell over him and Élise, causing Arno to look up. Julie de la Serre gave Arno a kind smile before kneeling down, hands folding on his small knees. "Arno, are you alright? Do you want some hot chocolate to warm up?"

"I want hot chocolate, Mama!" Élise piped, only to shrink back when her mother gave her a look.

"Arno, what about you?" Julie asked. "Do you want hot chocolate with Élise?" Arno looked at the woman, his eyes wide and wet with tears. He nodded. "Alright, I'll go inform Zoé." Julie said, standing up. She placed a hand on Élise's head before leaving the room. Arno sniffed and glanced at Élise, then at his shoes.

"It's going to be okay, Arno," Élise said. "My father is a really good swordsman. He'll chase the scary stranger away and get your father help."

Arno squeezed her hand, hoping she was right but not trusting himself to voice it. Arno blinked, trying to force back the tears. He never saw his father bleed like that before. There was so much blood, and the stranger had such a cold cruel look in his eyes, which countered Charles' look of utter fear, when the strange leveled his gun at Arno.

Arno shook, remembering staring down the barrel of that gun. He was sure the stranger was going to kill him, but then his father deflected the stranger's attack, the gun's bullet going into the sky. The crack of the gunshot reminded Arno of thunder.

A loud crash sounded somewhere downstairs, causing Arno to jump, a squeak escaping his throat. "Arno?" Élise asked, looking at him. He glanced at her, face milk-white. "It's okay, it was just one of the maids dropping something. Nothing to be afraid of."

Arno let out a little whimper before curling towards her, wrapping his left arm around her. He sniffed, tying to hold back the tears, his body trembling. He felt Élise hesitate for half a heartbeat before she patted his head, wrapping her right arm around his shoulders. "I'm scared…" he finally forced out.

"Shh," she whispered, "it's going to be okay. You'll see. Mama will make sure nothing bad happens to us." She began to stroke his hair. "Mama is really good with the sword too. She's teaching me how to use it. I have my own sword, Arno! Wanna see it?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Its small, but the blade is real and it can cut!"

"I said no, Élise!" Arno snapped and tried to pull away but Élise held him tightly.

"I'm sorry Arno," Élise whispered, "it's okay, we don't have to see my sword." She stopped stroking his hair. "Maybe… when we know your father is alright we can go see it?"

Arno let out a loud sigh. "Don't stop," he whispered.

"Stop what?"

"What… what you were doing… it felt nice?"

Élise began to stroke his hair again, running her tiny fingers through his hair. "You mean this?"

"Yeah," Arno mumbled, "it feels nice." They lapsed into a comfortable silence. "He was scary Élise," Arno finally said.

"Who?"

"The bad man that hurt my papa…. He was scary, with a scar over his eye… he hurt my papa!"

Élise shushed him. "He's not coming here Arno, and besides I told you, Mama will make sure nothing bad happens to us, and I'm pretty sure my papa will kill him for hurting your papa."

"But…"

"I have hot chocolate children," Julie said, coming into the room, a maid carrying a silver tea set on a silver platter in tow. She smiled at the sight of the two children cuddling. Arno glanced at her but didn't move from his position.

"Mama, is Papa back yet?" Élise asked.

"No, not yet," Julie looked at Arno. "Arno, I have hot chocolate. Do you want some?"

"Yes, please," Arno said, pulling away from Élise. He sniffed, setting his watch in his lap as he accepted the cup from Julie. The warm cup heated his hands and he stared into the pale brown liquid. It smelled of warm milk and cocoa, cinnamon and honey. He took a sip, savoring the taste of milk, chocolate, cinnamon, and honey on his tongue. He took another, feeling the hot chocolate warming him from the inside out. Another sip and before he stopped staring into his cup.

He'd have hot chocolate with his father on cold days. A servant would bring the platter with the pitcher full of hot chocolate and pour two cups before leaving. Arno liked it because it was just him and his father, and he got to hear stories. Now his father was hurt and possibly dead and he'd never get to sit by the fire with his father again, drinking hot chocolate. His father left him, just like his mother did.

The half-drunk cup tumbled from his numb fingers, falling to the ground and spilling hot chocolate all over the rug. Arno buried his face in his hands as he sobbed, unable to hold back his tears. His small shoulders trembled, his entire body trembling with the effort of getting all the tears out.

"Arno?" Élise whispered, surprised. He didn't hear her or feel her concern hand on his shoulder. He wasn't even aware of a servant coming to fetch Julie away. "Arno, it's going to be okay."

"Pa-pa… Wa-ant… Pa-pa!" Arno sobbed, his words a bit muffled by his hands. He sniffed, more tears coming, and he became vaguely aware of Élise's arms around him, her cheek against his head as she stroked his hair.

"Shh, shh," Élise cooed before singing, " _Alouette, gentille alouette._ _Alouette, je te plumerai!_ "

Arno's sobs slowed as he forced himself to listen to Élise's soft voice sing the familiar children's song. He cuddled towards her, exhaustion and Élise's soft voice lulling him, until he gave up and fell asleep in her arms.

* * *

Arno awoke the next day in a bed. The bed was soft and he was warm and someone was next to him, a hand was playing with his hair just the way he liked it. _Élise…_ he thought, recalling her voice and how she tried to comfort him.

"Arno," a familiar voice said. Arno made a little moan of protest, snuggling closer to the source of the warmth. A sharp hiss came and Arno opened his eyes at the sound. He couldn't believe it! His father was lying in bed, looking pale and tired, his dark hair loose and fanning out over the white pillow; but he was alive, so very much alive.

"Papa?" Arno whispered, not daring to believe it. He pinched himself just to make sure, jumping a bit when he felt pain. Charles chuckled. "Papa… are… "

"I'm alright," Charles said, "just hurt. Luckily, my opponent didn't cut my very deep and—" Arno flung himself around his father's neck, hugging him tightly as he wailed.

"I was so scared, Papa! I was so scared! Don't leave me Papa! Please, don't ever leave me, Papa! Papa! Papa! Don't leave me, please!" Arno sobbed, tears rolling down his cheeks. His body trembled, and his father tried to sooth him, his hand rubbing Arno's back.

"Shh, shh, Arno, shh. I'll never leave you, I promise. Shhh, Arno, be still son, be still. It's alright. I'm fine, I'm not going anywhere," Charles assured him.

"I love you, Papa! Please don't go! Don't leave me like Mama did! Don't go away! I'll be good, Papa! Just don't leave!"

"I love you too, Arno. I'm not going anywhere, be still Arno, be still. I'm here, I'm here," Charles said, hugging his son. Arno sniffed softly, snuggling closer to his father, taking comforting in his father's embrace. Arno pulled away after a bit to look at his father.

"Are… Are you going to be okay, Papa?" Arno asked, his voice soft. Charles nodded, a smile on his face.

"I will be, I have to stay in bed for a few days, but I'll get better," Charles said.

"Good." Arno gave a small nod, he sat up and rubbed the side of his nose. "Papa… c-can I ask you a question?"

"Of course Arno."

"Élise… Élise said her papa is a Templar… and that you're an A-Assassin," he bowed his head, "she said that I'll grow up to be an Assassin too. I'll be her enemy." Arno gave his father an earnest look. "I don't wanna be her enemy. I like her…"

Charles sighed, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. Arno pouted a little, unsure why his father was laughing. "Arno," he stopped, there was no way he could tell the boy to forget about everything.

"Yes, Papa?" Arno asked, staring at his father. He feared his father would say he couldn't play with Élise anymore, and the mere thought of being unable to play with Élise terrified him, made him go all cold inside, just like the thought of losing his father did.

"You and Élise can still be friends," Charles said, "you don't have to be enemies. Just because you and Élise are on opposite sides doesn't mean you can't be friends."

"But Uncle Pierre said I can't play with her!" Arno said, earnest, "He said that Assassins and Templars don't play together." Arno pouted, before he declaring, "I don't want to be an Assassin if I can't play with Élise!"

"Uncle Pierre doesn't understand the concept of _unity_ , Arno," Charles said, putting a hand on his son's head. "You do."

"I do?"

"Mmhmm," Charles nodded, "you can be an Assassin _and_ still be Élise's friend."

"You're an Assassin," Arno said, watching his father nod, "and I'll grow up to be an Assassin," again his father nodded, "and Élise said she'll grow up to be a Templar like her papa. D-Do… Do you think she'll still want to play with me?"

"I don't know, Arno," Charles said, a small smirk spreading across his lips. "You should ask her yourself."

The door opened and Élise poked her head in. "Arno?" she asked softly. Arno turned at the sound of his name, breath catching in his throat, a smile blossoming on his lips.

"Élise!" he cried, glancing briefly at his father for his approving nod, before slipping off the bed and running to her. He hugged her tightly. "Élise, I… I have a question," he said, taking a step back and holding her hands.

* * *

"Élise, I… I have a question," Arno said. His chest felt tight, it felt so similar to that day, thirteen years ago. So much time had passed between then and now. He knelt down on one knee, staring up into her blue-green eyes, the moonlight paling her flame red curls. He had practiced for the last month how he was going to say it. Getting the maids to stand in for her so he could get the lines down, but now… on the night they both become full fledged members of their respective orders, he's tongue tied and the hidden blade on his left wrist feels so heavy.

"Yes, Arno?" Élise prompted. She's no longer the eight-year-old girl that teased him in their games, she was a young woman now on the cups of her life as a Templar, the mirror to his own life, on the cups of his journey as an assassin. He remembers asking his father once, if he could still be friends with Élise even though they were on opposite sides on this age old conflict.

Arno let out a deep sigh, flicked his eyes to the ground and squeezed his eyes shut, the rehearsed lines appearing in his mind. "Élise de la Serre," he began, looking up at her, "we have known each other for thirteen years. We have done more for the cause of peace between Templars and Assassins than anyone before us ever dared to attempt. You and I have been… friends our entire lives," he stopped, his chest feeling tight as a myriad of emotions tumbled about, all wanting to get loose.

"Arno get on with it," Élise said, "what do you want? And do get up off the ground, you're looking ridiculous."

"I love you," he said, earnest. "I love you with all my heart, my soul, every fiber of my entire being," he swallowed dropping on of her left hand to pull out the ring he had bought earlier, "I…" he stopped unsure if he could continue. "I… I would be honored if… if you consent to be m-m-my wife." He slipped the simple diamond ring onto her finger, holding her gaze.

He watched as countless emotions flitted across her face; her hand going to her mouth to cover her soft gasp. He held her left hand in both of his. He rubbed his nose, wincing when he put too much pressure on the tender break. Élise said something but he wasn't paying attention. "Pardon?" he asked.

"Get up Arno," Élise said, her voice clipped. Arno sighed, steeling himself for her rejection. She had remained silent long enough that he _knew_ she would reject him. He had seen other men propose and their loves had given them ready answers.

 _Keep it together Arno, she hasn't said no or yes yet. Just… keep it together._ "Élise, I—" Arno fell silent as she pressed a finger to his lips.

"My answer is the same one it was all those years ago," Élise said, a smile tugging at her lips. Arno felt his eyes grow wide, a wide grin spreading across his lips. Élise slipped her arms around his neck and she kissed him, long and sweet, his hands dropped to her waist, pulling her close to him. She pulled back just enough to utter, "yes."

* * *

 ***dies***

 **I wanted this story up yesterday but it's been a beast. And I had a bad day, but I got my homework done early to post this.**

 **This is dedicated to a good friend of mine and she really needed a hug.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	63. Second Chances

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

It was biting cold, much colder than he was use to back in London. At least in London he could get out of the cold, warm up, not feel it's smothering embrace. Here, in the wilds of Massachusetts colony, there was no shelter and the snow drifts could reach up to a man's thigh. Shay and Hickey and insisted on celebrating his thirty-fourth birthday. Shay was so enthused about the idea, and Haytham didn't have the heart to inform the young turncoat that he loathed celebrations.

His birthday only ever reminded him of what he lost. What the Assassins took from him: His father, his mother, his sister.

Their petty preaching of freedom for all of mankind only lead to more death and bloodshed. He believed once, in the Creed, but that was when he was a naïve sophomore, unprepared for the cruelty of the world. The sanguinary barbarism of man, or rather man's lust for it.

Haytham had tactfully removed himself from the celebration to wander the snow covered countryside by himself. He was fortunate that the night was clear, the moon almost full and the stars twinkling overhead. It had stopped snowing an hour ago, the new snow squeak-crunching beneath his feet, every now and then there was a soft _thwump_ of snow falling off an over laden branch. Haytham sighed, taking in the fresh frigid air, allowing peaceful serenity to wash over him. Yes, here… in the expansive wild American wilderness he felt he could finally be at tranquil peace.

Alas, no such peace was to be had that night. He sensed a movement to his left, he narrowed his eyes, the auras popping out in stark contrast to the still moonlit winter night. The person's aura was a befuddled mix of hostile red and friendly blue. Haytham blinked, clearly the auras. A quick glance about told him there was no quick escape. His hand reached for his sword, but the hilt wasn't there. "Blast," he growled, crouching into a fighting stance, "guess I'll have to do this the slightly move difficult way." He flicked his wrists, hidden blades gleaming in the moonlight. Near the base of each blade was the Assassin insignia with a skull in the center.

Whomever was attacking him would rue the day they crossed paths with him. Though now that he thought about it could be Shay. He'd have to talk to Shay sternly, in private about intruding on his walks.

As the approaching figure neared, it took Haytham several moments to realize that it was a woman. A native woman, with twin braids and feathers in her hair, a turtle symbol on her necklace. "What are you doing here? I told you to never come here again! Leave, now! If you want to live!" she ordered, her voice curt, English impeccable.

Haytham released the tension on his hidden blades, and they snicked back into place. He straightened from his crouch and stared baffled at the woman before him. "Z-Z… _Ziio_!"

"Leave!" Ziio insisted. Haytham couldn't help but smile. If only she knew how she plagued his dreams, of all the things he should've told her. How much he loved her. There was only fury in her eyes, and he was the cause of it.

"Ziio, please, give me a chance to explain. I—"

"No, I'm done listening to your lies! You _used_ me to get to my people's sacred site!" Ziio accused. "I loved you, Haytham. I cared about you. I gave myself to you," she gestured to the vast emptiness of the wilds, "and this is how you repay me?"

Haytham's face fell. He heaved a great sigh before looking at her. He was captivated by her golden eyes, so expressive; it was his favorite feature about her. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's true that I did use… your feelings… and I regret it. I cannot discuss my motives with you for doing so—"

"Then, I don't want to hear your apology! Leave! Or I will cut your heart out and feed it to the wolves."

"Ziio," Haytham sighed, he took his hat off and rubbed his hand along his hair. "It's not that simple. I'm bound by a sacred oath to keep… to keep it secret. But believe me when I say that I did… that I _do_ still love you." He held out his hand for her. "It's been three years and… I've missed you."

Ah, the things he'll admit to this woman were astounding. She brought out another side of him that he refused to let others see. To the world he was the stoic, sharp witted, Templar Grand Master, but only for Ziio was he a man.

" _Ista!_ " a piping little voice squeaked. Out from the shadows toddled a child, bundled up in thick fur, amber eyes peering back up at Ziio. " _Ista!_ " the child whined again, reaching for her. Ziio chuckled, and scooped the child up in her arms. Smiling, she tapped her child on the nose. The child grinned, and muttered something in Mohawk. Ziio replied in the same language and kissed her child on the forehead.

"Since when did you have a child?" Haytham asked, confused. There was something vaguely familiar about the child, a certain angle of the jaw perhaps or the wideness of the mouth. Haytham couldn't quiet put his finger on it yet.

"Spring three years ago," Ziio said, pushing the child's dark hair out of his eyes.

"Oh," Haytham said, stamping his feet to keep them warm. "I… I didn't know you were married." He felt embarrassed about falling in love with a married woman. He could hear his father scold him for such actions right now, as if his ghost was nearby.

"I'm not," Ziio said. "I wasn't then either."

"Oh."

"His name is Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio said, she looked at him pointedly, "and he's your son."

There was the sound of snow falling off an over laden branch, a wolf howled in the distance, eerie and lonesome. He could hear his own breathing, the beating of his heart; feel the numbing cold seeping into his toes. One by one, the pieces fell into place.

Sultry summer nights, fireflies flickering about, an impromptu swim in a small pond, frogs croaking, her sighs, his groans, the croaking of frogs didn't seem loud enough at the time. He should've seen the signs then, three years ago. Her tiredness, the constant throwing up despite the constant hunger. Yet, for whatever reason he had missed all the signs, and when he had left was there a slight swell to her belly. He would never know. It was a memory he tried to forget, along with that rainy night fifteen years ago to the day. His father's final words, the rain masking his tears, the explosion, the taste of gunpowder on his tongue, Jenny finding him cradling their father's broken body.

"My son," Haytham said. Ziio gave a slight nod of her head. He swallowed again, it was pointless to ask her why she didn't tell him. He knew why. His lust for the cave's secrets the maddening riddle of the medallion still around his neck. His silence about the Templars. Yes, it was wise to keep his son away from such madness. "Well," he said and held out his arms, "give him here then. I want to get a good look at him." He twitched his fingers beckoning.

Ziio frowned and spoke softly to Ratonhnhaké:ton in Mohawk. The boy nodded, a smile on his lips. Ziio sighed before reluctantly handing over her child. Haytham accepted the boy into his arms and held him close.

He could see it now, the marrying of his features and hers within their son's face. He could even see a bit of his father too. Haytham knew then that Ratonhnhaké:ton was like him, the blood of Assassins and Templars flowed through his veins. "Does he… have a nickname?" Haytham asked. He doubted he could say the boy's name, even if he tried. He still couldn't say Ziio's full name, even though she had tried several times.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton is not a difficult name to say," Ziio protested.

"Ziio, I cannot say it, and can barely understand it," Haytham said. "Let me give him a proper English name, please."

"He is _my_ son," Ziio snapped. Haytham shielded the boy from her, anger in his eyes.

"He is mine as well; I am his father. I won't insist that I be involved in his life if you do not wish me to be so, but he deserves to at least have a name of my people. He'll need a name so that the colonists can call him by if he ever interacts with them."

Ziio glowered at Haytham, then looked away. "He's like you isn't he." She phrased the question as statement. "He can see the spirit energy of living things Haytham, you can too… right?" Haytham nodded. "Very well," Ziio said. "Give him an English name."

Haytham stared at the boy for several long moments, tried to figure out a proper name for his son. The first one that sprung to his mind was his father's, but Haytham dismissed it as being cursed. A wolf howled again. The lonesome cry echoing throughout the snowy landscape. "Connor," Haytham said, recalling the legend of Conchobar mac Nessa, an ancient Gaelic King, who had earned the loyalty of the great wolves of Ireland. "Connor Kenway," Haytham said, "yes that'll do."

" _Ista_?" Connor asked, looking over at his mother.

"Haytham Kenway, _raké:ni_ ," Ziio said. Connor brightened at that, and began to babble rapidly in Mohawk and some English. Haytham was surprised Ziio was teaching him.

" _Raké:ni_! _Raké:ni_!" Connor shouted, and hugged Haytham around his neck. Haytham smiled, and hugged his son tightly in return. Connor let him go and Haytham passed him back over to his mother.

"Can I see him again?" Haytham asked.

"I'll think about it," Ziio said. Connor smiled up at him, a cute smile on his face.

"Bye-bye, _Raké:ni_ ," he said, opening and closing his hand. Haytham smiled and waved at his son. Ziio inclined her head to Haytham and began to walk off towards the trees.

"Ziio!" Haytham called, taking a step towards her. She stopped, turning to look back at him. "I love you," he said. He saw her smile in the moonlight, before continuing her journey home. He watched her go, until the darkness swallowed her.

* * *

 **Sorry this was late, but I had a lot of homework to do over the weekend and though I made time for writing, it was mostly Arno/Élise related or I spent it playing Pokémon Moon.**

 **Apologies if Haytham or Ziio seem a bit OOC, I haven't written them in months, at least not in a canon verse setting. Still don't know when EKGTCR's next chapter will get finished, as I'll shamelessly admit that Assassin's Creed Unity (specifically Arno and Élise) have no bought my soul and own hence forth.**

 **Anyway, this is for Haytham's birthday.**

 **Happy Birthday Haytham E. Kenway! December 4, 1725**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	64. The Magi's Gift

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"Good morning Seattle, and Merry Christmas everyone!" the DJ on the radio said. Élise turned it off and poked the corner of Arno's mouth with a strip of bacon. He grumbled, batting it away with a hand. She giggled, doing it again, getting the same result.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey," she cooed, kissing his cheek. He opened his eyes at her, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Is that the last of the bacon?" he asked.

"Almost," she bit the strip, savoring the delicious taste of the bacon. "I made you breakfast," she said.

"What a good little wife you are," Arno said as he sat up. He stretched with a yawn, rubbing his head. "Making your poor overworked husband breakfast."

"You know I can very easily eat this egg and bacon sandwich myself, _I made_ it after all," Élise said, holding the plate.

"I'm teasing," Arno informed her, smiling. She returned his smile at sat on the bed next to him before handing the plate over to him. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, though Christmas is technically tomorrow," Élise said, tapping his nose. "I can't believe we couldn't afford a real tree. I always had one growing up."

"What's wrong with our tree?" Arno asked, pointing to the construction paper tree taped up to the wall of their one-bedroom apartment. "I like it."

"Arno, Léon and his friends from that Boys and Girls Club you volunteer at made it for you," Élise said, deadpan. "I mean; a plastic tree would've been better than this."

"I'm sorry, I'll get a plastic tree next year," Arno said, and bit into his breakfast sandwich. The yoke oozed down, splattering golden yellow on the plate. "Mm, this is good," he mumbled. Élise smiled, pleased he enjoyed her cooking. He watched her eat the left over bacon, one hand playing with her necklace. "You know," he said around a mouthful before swallowing, "it's a real shame you don't have a nice jewelry box to put that necklace in."

"I know," Élise agreed, "it was my mother's. I miss her."

"I miss my father too," Arno whispered. He grabbed his pocket watch and popped it open. "Shit, I'm going to be late for work. If I'm late, Malik is going to fire me." He took a huge bit of his sandwich, before handing her the plate. He swallowed, as he dressed, and tried not to trip over the blankets and the laundry that needed to be done. "You can have the rest."

"Okay," Élise chuckled, and snapped up the watch that Arno had dropped on the bed in his haste to get dress. "Don't forget this, maybe you'll get lucky and find some string to tie it to your belt."

"Wouldn't that be nice," Arno agreed as he pulled on his Starbucks shirt. He tugged on his coat. Élise smiled, sliding off the mattress that was their bed. She picked up a scarf and tied it around his neck.

"You be careful out there today, it's going to be crazy and hectic," Élise said, "tonight we'll have a nice little Christmas, with our lovely paper tree."

"Aw, you're warming up to it," Arno teased. Élise chuckled and grabbed the knit cap and tugged it on his head.

"Now you better go," she handed him his pocket watch, "don't miss your buss and be late for work."

He kissed her quickly before leave. "I won't, lock up before you leave!" he shouted and left their little apartment. Élise smiled as he left.

"I will, Arno," Élise whispered.

* * *

Arno made it to the Starbucks he worked at, slipped into the employee room, dawned his green robe and slipped behind the counter before Malik could spot him. "Where the hell have you been Arno?" Shaun hissed, before smiling at a costumer. "I've been lying through my teeth for almost thirty minutes!"

"Sorry, but the buss was running late," Arno grumbled. "Thanks for covering me."

"Are you sure I can't get a date with you as payment for risking my job for you?" Shaun asked, side-eyeing Arno's butt. Arno gave Shaun a cocky smirk and held up his left hand.

"Sorry, married and very happy too," Arno said, smiling.

"And we all know that's a wonderful lie we tell ourselves," Shaun sighed, "very well you owe me pizza."

"Deal," Arno agreed, and went about making the coffee as Shaun rattled off the orders. The rhythm of working and making the drinks soon took over and Arno just had to keep telling himself, he just had to make it through this shift and then run to the little store two streets over and pick up Élise's jewelry box before the place closed.

"Dorian," a voice said behind him. Arno swallowed, turning around to see his boss.

"Olivier, Merry Christmas," Arno said.

"Charmed," Olivier made a sour face, "I was just wondering were you by chance _late again_ this morning?"

"Oh of course not," Arno said, "you know me. I was here on time."

"You were late," Olivier said. "Don't lie to me, Dorian. The third time this week! I won't have it anymore. So, to make sure you won't be late again, you're staying an hour after work."

"Wh-what? An hour," Arno gasped, "Look, Olivier the buss was running late and—"

"You should've gotten on an earlier one."

"I need to get to this store that's two streets down and—"

"Should've come earlier."

"And its Christmas and this is a gift for my wife."

"Ah yes," Olivier sneered, "the beautiful Élise. Well, I don't care about Christmas and I don't care about your crumbling marriage, either. You're staying an hour after work and that is final. I don't want to hear any more complaints about you for the rest of the day."

"Yes, Olivier," Arno muttered. Olivier gave Arno a self-satisfying smile before walking off. "Crumbling marriage, my marriage isn't crumbling, we're just… taking our time."

"Don't let him get to you chap," Shaun said. "The man seriously needs to get laid."

"Let's just hope I can survive the rest of the work day," Arno said.

* * *

"Élise, Élise," Evie said, a bright smile on her face. Élise forced one on her face as well. "So, glad I caught up to you."

"Really? What's this about? Did I do something wrong?" Élise asked.

Evie sighed, looking at the cartful of books near Élise. "No, it's just that there's a new company policy. We got rid of the new books section for Fantasy/Scifi, so just," she grabbed _The Blood Mirror_ , "shelve it with all the rest."

"But wouldn't the costumers have trouble finding new books? Especially if it isn't really a new book but just got realized in paperback?"

"Look," Evie said, "I don't make the rules. I just follow them. You should too."

"Yeah, I _should_ ," Élise sneered, taking the book back from Evie.

"Well, I better let you get back to shelving books," Evie said and walked off. Élise frowned, mouthing _bitch_ as she turned away.

"Psst, is my sister gone?" a voice said, Élise scowled and pushed the book cart to the side.

"Jacob," Élise whispered, "what are you doing here?"

"Hiding," Jacob said, "what else? How's the hubby?"

"Hubby?" Élise arched a brow. "Did you just refer—"

"Husbando, hub-hub, hubby-bubby," Jacob rolled his eyes, "Arno? How's he?"

"Arno, my _husband_ ," Élise said, "is fine. He's at work right now. And you should be elsewhere otherwise Evie will have my hide and I need the money."

"I could just lend you some," Jacob said.

"No thank you Jacob," Élise said, "that's sweet, but I got it. Henry said he's going to issue the checks a week early because the holidays and everyone needs the cash boost."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, not with my sister bossing him around," Jacob warned. "But maybe Greenie will come through. Best of luck. I'm going to go back to GameStop and act like I didn't have a super long bathroom break." Jacob gave Élise a quick hug. "Hang in there Élise," Jacob winked at her before cupping his hands about his mouth, "Merry Christmas Evie Frye!"

"Bye Jacob," Élise chuckled and began to redo the book shelves.

* * *

It was an hour before closing and Arno had hoped that he would have an easy rest of his shift. Alas, that one customer everyone hated was in the shop. Arno tried to keep his smile on his face, and tried not to crush anything as Desmond hemmed and hahhed about what he wanted. Shaun leaned over the counter glowering at Rebecca. " _Make_ him _pick_ some _thing_!" he hissed.

"What if I… nah," Desmond shook his head.

"Desmond, just go with your usual," Lucy said.

"I want to try something different," Desmond said, staring at the menu. There was a peppermint mocha, gingerbread mocha, and an eggnog mocha, among other things. "What do you recommend?"

"I like them all," Arno said. "Though not if Shaun makes them."

"I heard that Arno," Shaun growled. Arno winked at him.

"But seriously Desmond, just go with your usual."

"I want to try something different," Desmond insisted. Arno groaned, and silently prayed that Desmond would just give in and order his usual coffee like he always did. "What do you think I should get?"

"Your usual Desmond," Shaun said. "Now, let Arno ring up your usual and—"

"It's Christmas Eve and I want to try something different," Desmond protested.

"Hey, you up front!" someone shouted from the back. "Hurry up and order already!"

Desmond turned and spotted the man that shouted. He scowled. "Can it Lynch," Desmond spat, before looking at Arno, "what's your favorite drink?"

"You know what?" Arno said, finally losing his patience, "I don't care." He took off the apron and handed it to Shaun, "I quit!" he said, turning and running right into Olivier.

"Dorian," Olivier said, "what is the—"

"I quit," Arno said, "you can send me my last check to my apartment." He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. "I have to go and buy a gift for my wife," he said, grabbing his coat and shoving it on. He didn't realize his wallet had dropped out of his coat pocket and onto the floor. "Bye Shaun," he said, wrapping the red scarf Élise knitted for him around his neck. He waved at his friend as he left, and leaving Olivier sputtering in disbelief.

* * *

Élise stared at Henry when her shift ended. "Wh-What do you mean you aren't issuing the checks early this year?" Élise asked, hardly believing that Henry would not do his Christmas special of giving all the employees their checks a week early. "I've worked here for two years and every year since you've hired me, you always gave everyone their last December paycheck on Christmas Eve."

"I know, but this year I've decided to not do that," Henry said.

"Why? What changed?" Élise said.

"Evie talked—"

"Of course," Élise snorted, "Evie. Alright fine," Élise snapped, "have it your way." She played with her necklace. "I'll be leaving now, if that's okay with you, _Mr._ Green?"

"Élise, I—"

"No, I get it," Élise said, "I quit too." Élise gathered her things, and stormed out of the Barnes and Noble. She headed to the jewelry store on the other side of the mall. Her heart heavy as she knew she didn't have enough money. She entered the brightly lit jewelry store, admiring the pretty items for sale. She breathed a bit easier when she saw the platinum pocket watch chain still in the display case.

"Ah, my favorite window shopper," the jeweler said. "How can I help you?"

"I'm here for that watch chain," Élise said, pointing to the item she had been eyeing all December.

"You have good taste," the jeweler said, "it's on sale too because of the holidays. It's $300 right now."

Élise's heart sank. She didn't have that kind of money on her. "Well, I… I was hoping we c-could trade."

"Trade? Ma'am this isn't a pawn shop," the jeweler said.

"I know, I know," Élise said, "it's just that the chain isn't for me, it's for my husband. It'll look lovely with his pocket watch and that way he won't lose it."

"Touching story ma'am, but—"

"I'll give you this in exchange," Élise said, desperate. She took off her mother's necklace and held it up to the man. "Solid gold with real rubies," she said. The jeweler took it from Élise and looked it over.

"The craftsmanship is exquisite," he said, "I could definitely make a profit off of this."

"All I want is that platinum chain," Élise said, "please. My husband and I don't make a lot of money and its Christmas. I just want to get him one nice thing."

The jeweler sighed, setting Élise's necklace down. "Normally," he said, "I won't do this, but for you I'll make an exception. I'll accept this necklace as payment." He set the necklace on a little table covered in black velvet, Élise felt tears prick her eyes as she offered up the only thing she had left of her mother's for Arno's Christmas present. The jeweler unlocked the case and grabbed the watch chain. He put in a little velvet box and even wrapped it for her. "There you go, ma'am," he said.

Tearfully Élise accepted the box. "Thank you, sir, thank you so much," she said, "my husband will be so happy with this."

The jeweler smiled, "I hope so. Merry Christmas." Élise nodded, glanced once more at her necklace before leaving and heading home.

* * *

He had nearly panicked when he didn't have his wallet in his coat pocket, but Arno got a text from Shaun saying he had his wallet and that he'll get it after Christmas. "Well, fuck," Arno muttered. There was no way he would be able to buy Élise's jewelry box now. Even if he did have the cash on hand. He reached the store in time, and stood outside it, staring at the box he wanted, shivering. He checked his watch, and decided that he might as well try to barter with the man.

"What do you want? I'm about to close," the man said. Arno swallowed, fiddling with the scarf around his neck. He walked up to the counter and set his watch on the table top.

"I'd like to trade my watch for that jewelry box in the window," Arno said.

"Have you lost your mind? This isn't the eleventh century," the man said.

"Please, sir," Arno said, "the jewelry box is for my wife. It's a Christmas present." Arno bowed his head, "We don't make much, and I want to get her something nice this year for Christmas." He held up his watch, remembering how his father had given it to him before he died. "My father gave me this watch. Family heirloom, been in th family since the 18th Century, rule silver, been refurbished twice. Please, it's probably worth more than that jewelry box."

The man looked at the watch. "It's in great condition. 18th Century you say?"

"That's what my father told me," Arno said. "Please, the box isn't for me. It's for my wife. She… she means everything to me. I'd buy her the moon if I could."

The man chuckled, shaking the watch at Arno. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked. "Give this pretty watch up?"

Arno swallowed. "Yes," he said. "I do."

"Very well," the man said, "I'll accept this as payment." He set the watch in an open strong box before fetching the jewelry box from the window. He even wrapped it for Arno before handing it to him. "I hope this makes your wife happy."

"Me too," Arno said, he accepted the wrapped box. "Merry Christmas." The man inclined his head and Arno left the shop.

* * *

They had turned the lights out in the little apartment, using candles instead, to create a more festive atmosphere. They sat on their bed, snuggled up against each other since they didn't have a couch watching _It's a Wonderful Life_ on Élise's old laptop. The movie ended around midnight.

"Look," Arno said, pointing to the clock on the screen. "Midnight."

"Officially Christmas," Élise said, smiling. She kissed Arno's cheek. "We can exchange gifts."

"Yes, let's," Arno said, setting her laptop aside and picking up his wrapped gift. Élise smiled at him, when he straightened holding out her gift. He chuckled, taking it and handing his off to her. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas Arno," Élise said. They unwrapped their gifts. Élise's heart leapt into her throat when she saw the beautifully carved box. "Is this…" she opened to see the sectioned off velvet interior, "it's a jewelry box," Élise said, her lips trembling, "for my necklace."

Arno couldn't help but grin when he saw the platinum chain glittering in the candle light. "A watch chain," he whispered, only then did his heart sink, "for my pocket watch."

"Arno?" Élise asked, noting his crestfallen look.

"I traded my watch to get you that jewelry box," Arno muttered, dejected. "I wanted you to have something nice for Christmas."

"Oh Arno," Élise said, smiling sadly at him, "I traded my necklace to get you that watch chain."

Arno's eyes grew wide and he chuckled softly. "Élise," Arno whispered, pulling her close and kissing her temple. "I love you," he said, smiling at her.

"I love you too," Élise replied, "Merry Christmas, Arno."

"Merry Christmas, Élise," Arno said.

 _It's not about the gift given but the love behind the gift._ _—_ _Anonymous_

* * *

 **MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**


	65. Dinner Date

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"I should kill you." The statement felt terribly out of place in the restaurant, where the lighting was dim and low, the clink-tink of forks and knives against plates echoed, soft as if they dare not disturb the affectionate atmosphere. Sofia Rikkin sipped her wine, a sweet red from France. "You do realize that, right? For what you did. For murdering my father."

The man opposite her, gave her a sharkish grin, putting a strip of rare steak into his mouth. He was silent as he ate. "I warned you Sofie," he said, the use of her nickname sent shivered down her arms of desire and indignation, "before I even went in there."

"But killing my father," Sofia hissed, leaning forward, her own dinner of poached quail, forgotten on her plate, the juices starting to cool and congeal. "Couldn't you have just taken the artifact and gone?"

Again, Cal didn't answer, continuing to enjoy his steak. "Are we going to split the bill?" he asked. Sofia scowled at his blatant attempt to redirect the conversation. "I'll admit I don't have that much cash on me."

"Don't you have a credit card?"

"Legally dead remember," Cal quirked a smile, "so, Miss Rikkin, how does it feel to be dating a dead man?"

She wanted to slap him for his nonchalant demeanor. "We aren't dating," she reminded him.

"Right," he said, he grabbed his wine glass as he leaned back in his chair, and gestured to the rest of the restaurant, "just two friends—"

"Enemies."

"—having a fancy dinner together, is that it?" Cal sipped his wine. "Mm, the wine's sweet."

"It's Bordeaux," Sofia said. "French."

"Always wanted to go to France," Cal said, setting his glass down. "You should eat your quail."

Sofia scowled at him, but ate her quail all the same. She hated to admit that the quail was perfectly seasoned and cooked to fall-off-the-bone tenderness. She took delicate bites, continuing to watch Cal with her cool calculating eyes. "I'll pick up the bill," she said. "Next time you'll get it, fair?"

"Oh so there's going to be a next time?" Cal asked, his foot brushing her ankle.

Sofia scowled, eyes fixed on her food. "Slip of the tongue," she said haughtily. "There won't be a next time Cal."

"Of course not."

"Why did you even seek me out? Why New York of all places?"

"I happened to be in New York at the same time you did," he grinned, "come Sofia. Why are you so resistant?"

"You're an Assassin," Sofia said, "I'm a Templar." She gave a sad look at Cal, reaching out and placing her hand on top of his. "I supposed it was inevitable."

Cal look down at their hands, pulled his back slightly and interlocked their fingers. "We can make it work."

"No, Cal," Sofia shook her head, "we can't. Too much blood and hate separates us," she bowed her head, "you killed my father. I can never forgive you for that." She looked at him with earnest and melancholic eyes, "I'm sorry." She tried to pull her hand from his but he held fast.

Cal brought their hands to his lips and kissed her knuckled. "Arno Dorian and Élise de la Serre made it work."

"Élise de la Serre was killed in front of Arno. And it didn't really work, she used him for her own ends." Sofia said, though her expression was soft. "I'm sorry Cal, it's just our nature as Templars to use people."

"I don't believe it," Cal said. Sofia wondered if he meant what she said about Élise or about Templars in general. "She loved him."

"Perhaps," Sofia finally admitted. "We'll never know though. Arno was killed before he even knew about his own child. Butchered like a dog in an alleyway by a thug hired by the Templars to retrieve the Sword of Eden." She pulled her hand free from his, reached beneath the table and pulled out a black velvet box. She slid it over to him. "Your mother's necklace and Arno's pocket watch." She gave a sad smile as she stood up. "Both belong to you."

Cal watched her as she made her way to the front of the restaurant and pay for their meal. He popped open the box. His mother's necklace glittered at the top and Arno Dorian's pocket watch gleamed silvery at the bottom. He touched both of them with a hesitant finger. His pocket buzzed and Cal pulled his phone out. _Crane's ready. Are you?_ The message read.

Cal sighed through his nose. It seemed that the war never ended and the Assassins had their own animus. Not as sophisticated as the ones the Templars had, but it got the job done. He was meeting two more tonight: Rebecca Crane and Shaun Hastings. Together, they'll explore more of his ancestral memories.

Cal looked in the direction Sofia was, but she had left now. He felt conflicted, torn between his heart and duty to the Creed. _Your life was never yours, Cal, it belongs to the Creed_. Those were some of the final words his father ever spoke to him. Cal couldn't miss the gold and ruby Templar necklace that Sofia wore around her neck. It looked old, like an heirloom.

Cal tapped reply, wrote his message, snapped the box close and stood up. He grabbed the box and slipped it into his pocket. He left the restaurant.

* * *

 **Happy Birthday Nermallion!**

 **Here's Cal and Sofia for you. :D**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	66. Ice Cream

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"Here," Arno said, setting the bowl before Élise. "It's all we have left. It went fast." He sat down across from her, enjoying the late night silence of the café. Élise slipped her spoon into the frozen cream dessert, saving the sweet taste. Arno tucked into his, sighing contently. Both enjoyed the silence. "So, how are things?" he asked.

"Same," Élise said with a shrug. "You?"

"Could be better."

"When the café get ice cream?" she asked.

"I think Noémie made a batch since it was getting warm," Arno said, "costumers like it during the summer."

"And the children," she pointed out. Arno nodded, remembering Élise wiping gooey faces earlier that day. "Good thing they're in bed."

"Hopefully asleep."

"I've missed this."

"Missed what?" He took another bite, enjoying the chill on his tongue and the pop of the berries Noémie tossed in.

"This," Élise said, gesturing between the two of them. "When was the last time just you and I did something simple together?"

Arno frowned, spoon in his mouth as he thought. Their private time was fleeting, and it was hard to remember moments when they could be a couple without a small piping voice calling them. "I think…" he drew his brows together, "I think before Charlotte was born."

"Mmhmm." Élise nodded. "I think so too. So, it's nice. I missed this."

"We're parents Élise," Arno said, a smiling on his face. He ate another spoonful of ice cream. "We aren't exactly young lovers anymore."

"No," Élise agreed, intertwining her fingers of her free hand with his, "but we're still lovers. We shouldn't forget that."

Arno smiled, bowing his head. It had been ten years since they got married, nine since Charlotte was born. Age had crept upon them, insidiously slow. Fine lines were appearing around their eyes, he started to notice glints of silver in his beard, and they both woke up with stiff muscles. They were getting older, their adventures in their youth starting to collect their toll. "You're beautiful," Arno said, bringing her hand up to kiss her knuckles. Élise blushed.

"And you're still handsome," she said, pressing her knee against his. He grinned. "Assassin Mentor."

"Templar Grand Master."

They blinked, before giggling and going back to their ice cream. Élise scooted her chair around to his side of the table and pressed it up against his. She leaned against him, eating the last few bites from her bowl. He slipped his arm around her waist, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," she replied. "Are you happy?"

"More than happy. You?"

"Yes," she agreed, "I'm happy."

"Good," Arno whispered. He chuckled when Élise tried to steal what was left in his bowl. They waged a mock war with their spoons over the last bites of ice cream. The dessert done, they sat there in the dark silence of the Café Théâtre, content with each other's company.

* * *

 **Turquoisetacos gave me the prompt ice cream, which reminded me of a picture of saw of Dan and Heidi (his lucky wife), having ice cream at a diner at night. So… this. Also I wanted to write something happy for y'all because the last couple of chapters in United We Stand have been deprressing as fuck and its not going to get any happier any time sooner, soo... this. Year is 1805.**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	67. Sweetest Kisses and Wine

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

The cellar was cool; light from the candle flickering on a nearby table. François de la Serre had left an hour earlier for some meeting, so there was no fear that he'd come stumbling down here to find his daughter and ward sharing a bottle of wine. He was almost fifteen, she already was. "How can you even drink this stuff Arno? It's disgusting," Élise said. "Much too sweet."

"I like sweet things," Arno said, "it's Bordeaux, what's wrong with Bordeaux?" He took a hearty swig from the bottle.

"Nothing," Élise said, grabbing the bottle from him. She took a gulp, her throat constricting with her swallow. Arno stared, fixated. "It's just so cloyingly sweet."

"This is your first bottle of wine, Élise, how can you judge?" Arno asked, accepting the bottle from her. He shook it; they had almost drunk all of it.

"How do you know it's my first bottle. I don't tell you _everything_ I do in Paris in my letters."

"You would've told me if you'd drunk a bottle of wine," Arno grumbled, before taking two more swallows. He burped. His cheeks colored, hand covering his mouth. Shyly he glanced at her. "Excuse me."

Élise blinked, before belching like a sailor. She winked at Arno before giggling like mad. "You're excused," she replied.

"Élise! You're a lady!" Arno chided. She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow and he laughed.

She scooted closer to him, took the bottle and finished what was left in it. She set it down between them, rested her head on his shoulder and laced her fingers with his. He tensed briefly before relaxing; resting his cheek on top of her head. "Arno," Élise asked.

"Mm?"

"When we grow up… are we still going to be friends?" Élise asked. Arno swallowed. Honestly, he wanted to be more than just friends with her. There was just something about her that drew him to her, like a moth to a flame.

"I… uh… I don't know Élise," Arno said. "To be honest, I don't know what's going to happen to me once I reach my majority. I'll probably have to look for work among one of the noble houses. I could be a butler or a stable hand. Do you want to be friends with a stable hand?"

"Arno—"

"And you, you're going to have to marry a nobleman. I'm surprised your father hasn't started looking for a suitor for you." Élise groaned, pulling away from him. Arno gulped. "I'm just being practical Élise."

"Practical my ass," she shot back. "I don't want to marry any one of those stuffy overdressed peacocks Arno!" she sighed, and wrapped her arms around his neck and looked up at him. "I want someone that'll let me be me, not trying to control my entire life. Someone…" she frowned, "someone like you actually."

Arno's cheeks turned red. "L-Like me? B-But… I'm just… y-your father's ward… an écuyer's son. N-Nothing special."

Élise frowned, before grabbing his face and kissing him. "It's because you're nothing special, an écuyer's son, that I love you Arno. You don't hold me to some lofty expectation. You accept me… _all_ of me. If I could choose my husband, I'd choose you."

Later, alone in his bed, he'd tell himself it was the wine talking. That Élise didn't mean anything she said. She was a good girl, she'd marry whomever her father told her to, and he'll be condemned like so many other young men; to forever pine after a woman out of his reach. He'd also blame the wine for what came tumbling out of his mouth next. "Marry me."

"What? Now?" Élise asked, pulling away. Arno shook his head, grabbing her wrists. His hands slid up to hers, cupping them between his.

"No," he said, his voice soft. "Not now. When we're older. When we've both reached our majority." He pressed his forehead against hers. "Let's promise each other that we'll marry."

Élise's lips tugged down into a pensive frown, her head tilted to one side as she thought. Then she beamed at him. "Alright, we'll marry when we've both reached our majority. We'll run away and do it. When we get back, married, my father won't be able to do anything. He won't destroy my happiness," there was a dangerous glint in her eyes, "especially if we stay away long enough for me to fall with child."

Arno's eyes grew wide and his cheeks grew hot. "Ch-Child? Élise… isn't that… a little—"

"You're right," she said, bowing her head, "I'm getting ahead of myself. We promise to marry. How… how do we seal such a promise in secret?"

"With a kiss," Arno said, a dopey smile on his face. "All the stories say such things are sealed with kisses."

Élise giggled. "You just want me to kiss you again."

Arno flushed, leaning his head back against the wall. "I've been found out, whatever shall I do now?" he laughed, wrapping his arms around her waist. He pressed his forehead against hers. "I was serious about getting married."

"I know," Élise said, a tender smile on her lips. She kissed him. She waited two heartbeats before tentatively gracing his lip with her tongue. To her delight he parted his lips and her tongue slipped into to stroke his. They both let out a shuddering moan; her arms circling his neck again to hold him tight. Their lips messaged each other's, as their tongues taste their mouths and the lingering drops of wine within. They both pulled away when the need for breath was too much, shivering at the intense new feelings tingling along their skin. "Sealed it with a kiss," Élise said, though she made no effort to move.

"Indeed," Arno said. He wanted to kiss her again.

"My father won't be home for a few more hours," Élise said, looking at the bottles of wine above their heads. "Shall we sample another?"

"Yes," Arno said, hand snaking up to cradle her head, he pressed a daring kiss to her throat, "let's."

* * *

 **For those of you who are confused this is what Arno was referring to in this scene**

 _ **He choked. "Unexpected?**_ ** _Unexpected!_** _ **Élise, we promised we'd get married?" He searched her face, looking for a sign of recognition, that she held onto that sweet blissful memory like he did. Instead, all he saw was her frown, a glance to the side. Had she forgotten? The chill began to spread to his fingers.**_

 _ **"I'm sorry, Arno…" she whispered. He struggled to breathe, trying to wrap his mind around her admission. "I… I didn't think you were serious when you asked me. I mean,**_ ** _honestly_** _ **we were fourteen, and drunk… it was a nice, but it was just something silly we did."**_

 _ **"It wasn't a silly thing, Élise!" he snapped, remembering that moment in the cellar, the wine bottle they passed back and forth, her flushed cheeks and merry giggle as she agreed to his proposal, the kiss they shared, deeper and more sinful than their previous secret stolen kisses. He took several deep breathes, trying to keep the tears at bay, he bit his lip before whispering, "it wasn't silly to me." The pain a tight knot in his chest.**_

 _ **United We Stand, Chapter 1**_

 **I was avoiding my essay last night. .**

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	68. Distance

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

 _Dear Connor,_

 _It is done. I have killed the Company Man… the Grand Master of the New Orleans Rite… my own step-mother: Madaeleine de L'Isle._

 _I'm not sure how I feel about this. She had been like a mother to me ever since my own vanished when I was a small girl. She raised me, taught me how to be a woman, how to trust in my abilities, in myself. A part of me still cannot believe she was the Grand Master, that she had been behind everything for so long. That part of me refuses to believe it._

 _But that is the small girl crying out in protest. I know I did the right thing, even if I feel hollow and empty inside. I trusted in my own hands and this is the result. Agaté once told me about the protégée of Ezio Auditore, a Chinese woman named Shao Jun. Monsieur Auditore told Shao Jun that the life of an Assassin is pain._

 _It is a bitter taste to swallow, but I supposed he is right. I have lost all that I have held dear. It makes me fiercely protect what little I have._

 _I hope this letter finds you in good health, Connor, and hopefully in a more sanguine mood than when I wrote it._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Aveline de Grandpré_

 _1777_

 _Aveline_ _—_

 _I am sorry that I have not had time to reply to your letter though I did read it upon receiving it. The colonies had declared independence from Britain as you have heard and the war has been bloody, bitter and filled with betrayal. I am sorry that you had to kill your step-mother._

 _I have learned truths about the past that I now feel would have been better left buried. I have learned that George Washington was the true mastermind behind my mother's death, yet I still relentlessly hunt Charles Lee. I have stained my hands with the blood of my closest friend and I wonder if I did the right thing. I have lost my mentor, and I still have many questions for him._

 _The hardest blow is the lost of my father. I have met him Aveline, worked with him and… learned about his past. I have made a grave mistake in killing him. I only realize this after he is dead._

 _I keep replaying the last moments of his life. His final words to me. The look in his eyes as he died. I want to think there was regret but I am not sure. I am not sure of anything anymore Aveline. My path, this war, the future. All I can do is go forward._

 _Ezio Auditore is correct. The life of an Assassin is pain. My life has been filled with it since I was a boy. Now, no matter how much I wash my hands, I cannot seem to rid them of my father's blood. I do not think the blood will ever come off._

 _—_ _Connor_

 _1781_

 _Dear Connor,_

 _It pains me to hear you and I share yet another quirk of fate. I am well. My father's business is booming under my careful management, though Gérald takes all the praise. To be honest, I'm thinking of selling it and retreating to the bayou. I'm learning how to make more complex poisons from the voodoo witch doctors in the area. New Orleans holds nothing for me here._

 _How is Patience doing? I haven't heard from her since our parting up at the Homestead. I hope she isn't giving you too much trouble. She can be a handful._

 _I'm also sorry that I haven't replied sooner, it has been busy. Have you heard about the Bastille? Probably not as you do not keep in contact with our French Brothers. It has fallen and the long lost son of the late Charles Dorian has resurfaced. I wonder what the future holds for him._

 _I'm also considering returning to Boston in the near future. I would like to expand my father's company to trade with the north. I hope you'd… well, never mind. I look forward to see you again. I will teach you how to craft more potent poisons. Until then, take care._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Aveline de Grandpré_

 _1789_

 _Aveline—_

 _I have heard the news of the revolution in France. I did make contact with our French Brothers, but I had not yet heard of the resurfacing of Charles Dorian's missing son. In fact, I was unaware that Charles Dorian even had a child, let alone a son. I have written to our Brothers in Paris and assured them that I will be willing to send them any aid that I can._

 _Patience is doing well. She is stubborn and willful but I have managed to find a way to teach her. She learns quickly and makes excellent use of her skills._

"Connor!" Patience called, opening the door to Connor's room. "Someone is here to see you."

Connor looked away from the letter. He'll have to finish it later, when there were less distractions. "I will be downstairs in a moment," he told Patience.

"He's up here!" Patience shouted to whomever their guest was. Connor rubbed his eyes, trying to keep his patience. He chuckled softly to himself at the thought.

"And what does the Mentor of the American Brotherhood find amusing, I wonder?" came a voice. Connor stood, and turned. A smile brightened on his lips.

"Aveline! I was…" he trailed off, glancing at the letter.

Aveline closed the gap between them, smiling as she took his hand. "You can tell me what you were going to say in person."

* * *

 **Tea, I'm sorry this is crap.**

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 **Nemo et Nihil**


	69. Come Cover Me (E)

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Warning: Sex**

* * *

 _Come cove me with you! For the thrill, till you will take me in. Come comfort me in you! Young love must live twice only for us._ _—_ _Nightwish_

* * *

Everything was silent. There was a pale sliver of moonlight coming through the window. He padded down the hall on cat-silent feet, his breathing coming out in slow breathes. He stopped before her door and tapped with his nail on the wood. He heard movement on the other side, the door opening and Élise's eye appeared at the crack. "Is it clear?" she whispered.

Arno glanced about, nobody was in the hall. "Yes," he breathed, and she opened the door wide enough to slip his lanky frame through. She closed and locked the door. She threw her arms around his neck, and his arms circled her waist. They sighed content to be in each other's embrace. "I missed you," he whispered. She giggled, kissing his nose before leading him to the bed.

They sat in a pool of moonlight, Élise fiddling with a loose thread on her shift. He sat cross-legged, hands on the bare ankles. It was a bit chilly for a summer night and he wore a loose fitting night shirt and his underwear. "Your hair is loose," Élise commented. Arno nodded.

"Yes, I—" his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying not to blush. It still did that from time to time. "I don't tie it back for bed," he said. Élise smiled serenely at him. His sixteenth birthday was next week and she promised she'll be here for it.

"It looks nice," she said. "Suits you." Then she frowned, noticing a cut on his cheek. "Arno how did you get this?" she asked, tapping his cheek. He flushed, glad the moonlight washed out his cheeks tinting.

"Cut myself… shaving," he mumbled. She giggled and that only further fueled his embarrassment. "It hurt like hell."

"I just can't believe you're shaving," Élise teased. "You're still the same baby-face Arno I left years ago."

Arno pouted. "Well, you're still…still… uuh…" he stopped, blushing. Élise hadn't changed that much since her last visit home around New Year's. Her hair was maybe a bit longer, hips a bit wider, chest a bit fuller. Regardless, Arno always thought she was angelically beautiful.

"I'm still what, Arno?" Élise asked, titling her head to the side. "Arno?"

"Very pretty," Arno said, looking up at her, with a hopeful smile. His smile widened when she blushed. "Can we kiss now?" he asked. Élise laughed _. If moonlight had a sound_ , Arno thought, _it would be Élise's laugh_.

"Is that all you think about these days, kissing me?" Élise teased, poking him in the ribs. He mumbled, rubbing the spot where she poked him.

"Yes," Arno quipped. "Not really, but… it's just… you said to come tonight because you had something planned, so… I thought we'd be kissing." There was a glint in Élise's eyes, the same one when she had something devilish planned. "Élise?"

She didn't explain before kissing him, her hands on his thighs. He sighed, content to feel her soft lips on his; he placed his hands on her hips. It was innocent for two heartbeats, before Élise's tongue darted out and stroked his lips. He parted his by reflex, allowing their tongues to twine together. They pulled away, gasping for breath before kissing against.

He's enjoying it, getting lost in how her lips feel against his and her tongue stroking his. There was a whispering rustle of fabric, and Élise's hand was against his stomach. His skin twitched, and he pulled away, breaking their kiss. He looked down, her hand still beneath his shirt. "Élise?" he asked, his cheeks growing hot. There was that darkling in her eyes again, the impish glint of doing something forbidden. She ran her hand up his chest and he sighs, enjoying the softness of her hand. Her hand graced a nipple and he moaned softly, closing his eyes. Blood rushed north and south.

"Arno," Élise said. He snapped his eyes open to look at her.

"Yes?"

"Take your shirt off," she said.

Arno blinked. "Alright," he replied, bit confused as to why she wanted him to take his shirt off. "We're still going to kiss right?" he asked.

"We're going to do a lot more than just kiss, Arno," Élise said, scooting closer to him as he pulled his night shirt over his head. He tossed it to the floor, skin puckering at the sudden change of temperature. Arno gulped, feeling self-conscious about her scrutinizing stare.

"Well?" Arno asked, feeling awkward. Élise looked at him, then ran both her hands up and down his chest, feeling the developing muscles. He sighed softly, enjoying the caressing touch. Until she twitched her fingers along his sides, by his ribs. He choked on a laugh. "É-Élise!" Arno gasped, as her fingers danced along his ribs. He fell on his back squirming. "St-stop!"

"I didn't know you were ticklish!" Élise teased, tossing her red curls back and straddling his hips. She was relentless in her tickling and he was persistent in his effort to buck her off, but she squeezed her thighs around his hips to keep herself in place. His hands caught hers, interlacing his fingers with hers. Élise chuckled, leaning forward and catching his lips in a kiss. Arno sighed, eyes fluttering closed.

Élise pulled her lips from his, kissing his cheek and jaw and down his throat. Arno groaned when she sucked on his throat. "Careful," he cautioned, "don't leave a mark."

She smacked his shoulder. "Shut up. Just be quiet and my father isn't going to hear us. Got it?"

"Okay," Arno whispered. He didn't know how he'd keep his promise, especially when she began to kiss randomly on his chest. It felt good and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to muffle his moan. He gasped loudly when she pressed her tongue experimentally to his nipple.

"What?" Élise pulled away, letting go of his hands. "Did that hurt?"

"No," he said, eyes wide, "it felt really nice."

"Oh. Alright," she said, fluffing her hair before leaning forward and kissing his nipple again. He rubbed her shoulders, encouraging her to lick and suck.

"That's really — _ow!_ Élise, what the hell!" Arno yelped, pushing her back. She blinked at him baffled.

"What? You said you liked it," she protested.

"You _bit_ me!" he pointed out, wiggling out from beneath her and rubbing his abused nipple. He glared at her, betrayed.

"It didn't feel good?" she asked.

"No! It hurt!"

"I said keep it down, so stop being a baby," Élise said, grabbing his ankle. "I'll bite gentler."

"No, no biting," he hissed. "Can we just go back to kissing?"

"No." Élise said, a serious glint in her eyes. "I told you, we're going to do more than kissing tonight." She sat back on her heels and lifted her shift over her body, exposing her naked from to him. Arno's eyes grew wide at the sight of her pale skin, whiter in the moonlight. He drank her all in, admiring the swell of her young breasts, the flatness of her stomach, down to the tangle of red curls peeking out from between her legs.

 _God! The angels are singing at such a sight._ Arno thought, his eyes followed Élise's shy finger as it traced her breast. He scooted up into a sitting position.

"Touch me," Élise said. Arno's eyes grew wide and he chewed at his lip. "Arno I said, touch me."

Arno flushed, his face turning a bright red, even in the moonlit darkness. Slowly, he reached out and touched her. Shy and light touches, then bolder, he ran his palm along her stomach and up between her breasts. He cupped her breasts, kneading them and tweaking her nipples. Her moans were soft and encouraging, her mouth open in an erotic little O. Eyes fluttering closed, "A-Arno…"

"Yes?" he asked, stopping and staring at her.

"Kiss me," she ordered, "like I kissed you."

He smirked. "No biting?" he asked. She shook her head and he pressed his lips to the top of her breasts, kissing and sucking in a random pattern. His hands fell to her hips and slowly he guided her into his lap. Élise moaned when he pressed opened mouth kisses to her nipples, and ventured lower, down long her stomach. Arousal pooled in his groin. Élise ground her hips against his and the intense new sensation made him cry out in shock.

"What?" Élise asked, lifting herself off of him. "Arno are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

It took a moment to get his breath back. "N-No… no, do that again," he said. Élise titled her head but acquiesced to his request, grinding her hips against his. Arno moaned, loudly.

"Arno, I told you to keep it down!" Élise snapped, getting off him. He whimpered in protest.

"S-Sorry," he mumbled. "It just felt really, really good."

"Are you hard?" she asked, eyeing the tent in his pants. Arno flushed, giving a little nod. "Ooooh," Élise teased, hands flying to the laces of his underwear. He tried to stop her, but she won out and yanked his pants off. He instinctively brought his knees together and his hands to his groin, trying to cover the physical evidence of his desire for her. "Let me see, Arno! I wanna see." Élise said, pulling his knees apart and his hands away.

Arno swallowed as she studied his erected cock. He looked away. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Why?" Élise asked. "Arno, why are you sorry?"

"It's just… nothing…" he looked away from her, "I…"

"Arno, are you ashamed of yourself… ashamed of wanting me?" Élise asked. His head shot up, his widening in surprised. She sounded hurt and a bit confused that he would feel like that.

"Élise."

"Look," she said, fluffing her hair as she sat between his legs, her legs slipping beneath his. "I wouldn't've pushed it this far if I didn't want to be with you like this." She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with something more than friendship. "I want this Arno."

 _Love, stupid. It's love! She loves you._ Arno blinked. "Élise… I…" he swallowed, "I lo— lots like you." Cold dread coiled down his spine. _Why couldn't I say it? Why couldn't I tell her how I felt! Lots like you? What fool says that!_ He should just leave, and never show his face to her again.

Élise giggled, and shyly pressed her lips against his. "I love you too, Arno," she whispered, before kissing him again. Her hand traveled up his thigh, and then hesitantly stroked his cock.

Arno bit her bottom lip to muffle his moan. Guilty, he kissed her abused lip, grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her closer. "D-Don't… stop…" he panted, brown eyes cloudy with lust.

"Feels good?" she asked, stroking him gently. He nodded, biting his lip to muffle another moan.

Élise stroked him a few more times before she pulled her hand away and sat back on her heels. Arno glared at her. "Why did you stop? I told you not to stop."

"Françoise says that men can be rather… quick," she said, giving him a wink.

"Who's Françoise?" Arno asked, wrinkling his nose.

"One of Madame de la Mare's daughters," Élise gave a cute little pout, "she's older than Yvonne and I. So she tells both of us all these lewd details about what she does in the bedroom with a man." Élise said, giving Arno a saucy wink. "Well, not everything."

"Oh," Arno said, and reached for Élise's hand to guide it back to his cock but she pulled out of his reach. "Please, Élise, it felt really nice."

"No," she said squaring her shoulders. "I want you to touch me now."

Arno stared at her, moonstruck. "Uuh… where exactly?" he asked. He knew where, and by the look she gave him he knew she saw through his attempt to stall. Frustrated, Élise grabbed his wrist and placed it on her inner thigh. "Oh."

"Go on, Arno, touch me," she prompted.

"I am touching you," Arno said, trying to pull his hand away. His cheeks were a bright pink and the tips of his ears were warm. He wished he wasn't so shy. Élise held his hand firmly in place and tugged it even closer to her silken folds. She gave one more insisting tug and he caved. He reached out and touched her, eyes glued to her face, watching for her reaction as he poked and prodded with gentle questing fingers. She gave small encouraging nods. He pressed a finger between her folds, finding her wet entrance. She hissed when he began to press further. He stopped. "Élise?"

"Don't stop Arno." She grinned. "Don't fear the sin cave." She laughed.

He withdrew his hand, biting his lip to muffle his laughter. "Where… did you hear that?" he asked, chuckling. She giggled.

"A nun was telling that to all the passing young women. 'Fear thy sin cave! Let no man that isn't thine husband enter it!' Needless to say Yvonne, Françoise and I all had a good laugh."

"I would too," Arno agreed. Élise laughed again. She took his face in her hands, kissing him long and sweet. He sighed into her mouth, allowing her tongue to explore. His hands returned to her thighs, and began their gentle exploration of her womanhood. He pressed one finger in, stopping at the second knuckle, then slowly pulling back out and pushing back in again.

Élise hissed, wincing the first few times he did it. She gradually began to rock her hips. "A-Another…" she gasped. He nodded, fascinated with the growing flush on her cheeks. His slipped in another finger, watching her wince against the pain as her body adjusted to the ever widening girth it was forced to accept. His thumb found her pearl; Élise gave a loud moan, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. "Merde!"

"And you thought I was loud," Arno teased, "careful Élise. You need to be quiet so we don't get caught." She bit his shoulder in retaliation. "Ow. Élise!"

"Let's do it," Élise panted. Arno blinked. "I want you inside of me."

He swallowed not really sure what to do. "A-Alright." He pulled his fingers out and glanced around. "Why don't you… lie down?"

"Françoise said its better if the woman is on top the first time." Élise titled her head. "So you lie down." She slipped from his lap and glanced pointedly at the bed. He sighed, gathered a few pillows before laying down; cock like a small fleshy flagpole jutting from between his legs. He hissed when Élise touched the head, running her hand up and down it.

"É-Élise… I… keep that up and I'll just…" he bit his lip to muffle his moan. She stopped, giggling. "Tease," he growled, a playful glower directed at her. She winked before rising to her knees and positioning herself over him. "So… uh… how do I get… myself in there?"

"I think I just lower myself," she said, "you know, like putting a hat on. It should go in nice and easy." He doubted that but nodded, hands going to her hips. "Ready?"

He puffed his cheeks out in a sigh; nodded once. "Ready." He watched as Élise lowered herself, thighs wobbling with the effort of keeping her body up. She missed. The head of his cock butting against her leg. She pouted, shifted over a bit and tried again. He gasped when he felt walls of flesh mold around the head of his cock. "A-Are you in?" He bucked his hips gently. She yelped, lifting herself off him.

"No! And that was my butt!" she hissed, indignant. He flushed.

"S-Sorry. Try again."

"I'm going to." Élise lowered herself down on him. The head of his cock met her wet cunt, but the angle was off. She whimpered in pain and lifted herself up again. Arno groaned. "I can't do it Arno." Élise grumbled, sounding on the verge of frustrated tears. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but I can't… I can't do it!"

He sat up, wiggling out from beneath her. "Shh. Shh. We'll figure it out. How about you lay down, and I'll see if I can't get it right?"

She nodded, sniffling and rubbing at her eyes to keep the tears at bay. "O-Okay." She flopped beside him, spreading her legs wide. The glanced over his shoulder, studying the moon's glow, before nudging her closer to the moonlight. He spread her folds and found the dark entrance to her cunt. He scooted between her legs, resting her thighs on his hips. "I can feel it," she whispered as if it was a secret. "It feels invasive."

Arno flushed. "S-Sorry." He muttered, and leaned back to allow the moonlight to illuminate the shadowy space between them. He grabbed his cock and guided the tip into her. Élise hissed, nodding in encouragement. He eased himself in slowly, watching as her face contorted in pain. She whimpered. "Do you want me to pull out?" he asked. He didn't want to. It felt nice already.

"No!" she glowered at him. "We got this far. Let's go all the way. Be-Besides… Françoise said it's supposed to hurt. I'm supposed to bleed too." She frowned. "Though to be honest it's just terribly uncomfortable."

Arno nodded, waiting for her to nod. Telling him to continue. She did, after a few moments and he pressed himself further in, until he was fully sheathed. "Élise?"

"Dear God!" she groaned. "You're huge!" He couldn't help but flush at that, a surge of pride coursed through him. "It feels like I have a plug in me! It feels really weird." She looked at him. "Well don't just stay there! Move!"

"Oh, right!" he gave a weak laugh and slowly pulled out half way before sliding back in. Élise whimpered, getting use to the strange sensation. Arno groaned, his breath picking up as his thrusts slowly increase in tempo. Élise bucked her hips in time with his after a few heartbeats. He watched her face; her cheeks flushing in pleasure as her hands twisted about in hair. He leaned forward, kissing her as he rocked into her steadily. Her hands found the skin on his back; nails digging into his back, clawing and leaving red lines. The bit of pain added to his pleasure and he groaned, low and deep. "I'm… I'm…" he grunted, unable to hold on much longer. "Élise… I…" he came then. Body shuddering with the height of pleasure, a loud grunt escaping from his throat. His arms wobbled in an effort to hold himself up and he shifted his weight to the side and pulled himself out of her. "Wow…"

"That was it?" Élise asked.

He quirked a brow at her. "What do you mean? That was amazing! I… I…" he gasped, trying to get his breath back. He thought he was going slow, but he felt winded as if he ran a mile. He felt warm and tingly, especially between his legs. "We _have_ to do that again."

"No, we're not," Élise spat. "Françoise is a liar. She said it was amazing and—"

"But it was amazing!"

"For you!" Élise gave him a sharp look. "But all I did was lay there and moan a bit! You seemed to be enjoying it much more than me. It felt better when you used your fingers!"

"My fingers?" Arno frowned, then his eyes widened. "Oh." He reached between her legs, finding her pearl and rubbed it with his thumb. She moaned, biting her hand. "Like this?" he purred into her ear. She whimpered, nodding. He smirked, working her bundle of nerves, watching as she wriggled and bucked her hips. She moaned loudly and he covered her mouth with his hand. "Shh, quiet remember." He chuckled when she shot him a glare as she pulled his hand from her mouth. He reached down with his other hand and palmed her breast.

"A-Arno…" she gasped, staring at him. Her cheeks a rich rosy color. "Arno… I…"

"Go on," he said, rubbing her pearl. "Let go." He watched her come undone then. Hips bucking up, back arching, his name escaping her lips in a long shuddering moan. He clapped his hand over her mouth at the last second, pulling his other hand away from between her legs. Both stared at the door, waiting for François de la Serre to come knocking.

Only their frightened breathing disturbed the night. They both relaxed and slipped beneath the covers. Arno pulled her close to him. "Now, _that_ … was amazing," Élise said. She cupped his cheek and he grinned, feeling pleased with himself. "Next time, I come first, understand?"

"Let's come together then? I bet it'll feel even better."

"Hmm. Alright, but I come first, understand?" She kissed his nose. He chuckled.

"I'll always let you come first," he said, "promise."

* * *

"And I've kept it," he muttered, fifteen years later in another bed, another city yet still with the same woman. Who was seated on his cock right now, rocking her hips.

"Arno what are you doing?" Élise hissed. "Pay attention and fuck me!" Élise's lips fell into a frown. "And keep it down. Julien is asleep."

"Huh?" he glanced at her. She pouted, milk laden breasts sagging against her chest, her stomach wasn't tight anymore, he could see the shiny stretch marks in the moonlight. A scar on her left side another on her right; motherhood, the revolution, hunting Germain, it all had taken a toll on her body. He didn't care though; she was still beautiful to him. She rocked her hips, drawing his mind back to the task at hand. He groaned. "Élise…"

"You're awfully pensive," she said, "considering this was your idea, _I_ wanted to go to bed." She rocked her hips again, and he thrust dutifully. She gasped, a hand snaking between her legs. He watched it, making sure he kept his hips moving to her tempo. He slowed again, caught up in studying her. Élise didn't seem to notice though, too caught up in reaching her own orgasm. When her walls clenched around his cock, he was torn from his musing, remembering his own desire and focused on thrusting into her and coming a minute or so late with a muffled shout.

Gasping, Élise pulled herself off him and flopped down by his side. H pressed his wrist to his brow, staring at the canopy. Near the dresser in his small little bed, Julien shifted in his sleep. "You seemed really out of it," Élise said, shifting to lay on her side. He turned his head to look at her. "Care to tell me why?"

Arno sighed, and glanced at the lattice of scars on his wrist. "I'm not having another melancholic episode," he said, hoping he didn't sound defensive.

"I wasn't—"

"I was just thinking," he said, a corner of his mouth lifting in a wry half-smirk. "About our first time." He watched Élise blink before snorting out a laugh. "It's true."

"Whatever made you think of that?" she asked. "I get embarrassed thinking about it. It was better in the balloon than… merde! Arno." Élise placed her head on his shoulder, arm falling around his hips. "It was so—"

"I was painfully shy and you were too bold for your own good?" he cupped her cheek, pressing a kiss to her brow. "I know."

"You've gotten bigger," she said. He chuckled.

"I've grown a bit since then," Arno said. "I'd hope I'd get bigger."

"Meanwhile I've just gotten…" she pinched the loose skin around her stomach. Despite training religiously since Julien's birth, it hadn't gotten rid of all the effects of pregnancy. "I'm hideous."

"No. No, you're beautiful," he said, kissing her forehead. "So beautiful and lovely and I love you." He pressed kisses to her cheeks, her nose, her throat and lips. "Don't say that. Don't ever say that."

"Arno."

"You're…" he puffed his cheeks out in a sigh, trying to find the right words. "You're my best friend, my lover, my wife, the mother of my children. I think you're beautiful." Élise snickered then. "I'm serious, Élise!"

"I know," she whispered, smiling. She kissed him, finding his hand and lacing their fingers together. "I lots like you Arno," Élise said.

"Merde." He rolled his eyes. "Not that again, Élise. You know what I meant back then." He heard her giggle.

"My sweet shy Arno," she giggled. He huffed when she fiddled with his bangs. "Couldn't even tell me how you felt back then."

He shifted away from her then, looking at his sleeping son in his small little bed. "Fifteen years ago, I wasn't even sure if you returned my feelings. I knew I couldn't marry you. I was an orphan, you're father's ward."

"And now look at you," Élise said, turning his head so he could look at her. "Councilmember of the Assassin Council, father to two beautiful children—"

"Three children, Élise. Léon's our son. Even if he is adopted."

Élise bowed her head. "Yes, of course. Father to three lovely children, and," she paused, "you're married to me. You've come a long ways in fifteen years."

He chuckled, rolling over to face her. "I have. We both have. You're the Grand Master—"

"Something I always knew I would be."

"—my wife, you have three beautiful children. You have… accomplished a lot as well."

"Indeed," she agreed. "We both have." She yawned. "I love you Arno."

"I love you too, Élise."

* * *

 **THIS JUST DID NOT WANT TO END! GAAAAH!**

 **I started this like back in January and finally got around to finishing it up. I saw a post on tumblr saying that the OP was tired of seeing cliché pwp which is just basically porn. They wanted to see awkward first times, crying during sex, the couple deliberately trying to ruin the mood, ect. SO! I answered the challenge.**

 **Dun-dun-duuuuh! You get awkward first time Arno/Élise!**

 **Enjoy.**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo et Nihil**

 **PS: I AM NOT DEAD! United We Stand** _ **is**_ **still going strong. I just have school, self-doubt about myself when it comes to writing Arno without my lovely beta turquoisetacos (I love you dear heart!) RIGHT THERE! And… well the entire depression arch for Arno has been just… killer. Please, bear with me. Be patient. It'll be worth it in the end.**


	70. The Talk

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

 **Dialogue inspired by Sanman's Kenway Syndrome Comics**

* * *

Haytham laid awake, staring at the ceiling. Ziio had drifted off into the in between state of wakefulness and sleep. He, on the other hand, couldn't find rest. "He never told me."

"Hm."

"I'm his father and he never told me he was dating!"

"Hm."

"I don't know what I did wrong, Ziio! I love him and I taught him everything he knows, yet my own son didn't have the decency to inform me that he was dating… anyone!" Haytham rolled onto his side to stare at his wife's back. "Did I do something wrong with raising him? Was I at the office too much? We use to have so much fun when he was younger and now he won't even speak to me!"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton has always been private, Haytham," Ziio mumbled into her pillow. "He's seventeen. At least he's not sneaking out to meet women like that Auditore boy or the Dorian boy."

Haytham paled upon hearing that. Connor had come home with a few stories of the nightly escapades of Ezio Auditore and his playboy conquests or the neighbourhood girls. _At least the Dorian boy just goes to his girlfriend's house_ , Haytham thought. "I need to have a talk with him," Haytham said aloud.

"Haytham."

"It's high time I discuss important things in life with him. He's my son after all," Haytham said. _And I won't traumatize him like my father did with me_ , Haytham assured himself privately.

* * *

He found Connor that Saturday on the roof of their restaurant/apartment. He stood there, watching Connor practice one of the traditional dances of the Mohawk tribe, Ziio's old boom box was tucked into a corner, blasting out the drumbeat for Connor to dance too. Impressed, Haytham watched his son carefully set his foot down, as if Connor was following some invisible pattern only he could see.

The music stopped. Haytham clapped causing Connor to turn and blush. The boy quickly shut the boom box off. "Dad, uh… what are—"

"Practicing for the powwow I see," Haytham said, clasping his hands behind his back. "You looked good. I'm sure your mother would be pleased."

" _Ista_ is," Connor said. "So, uh… what brings you up here then?" Connor asked. Haytham puffed his cheeks out in a sigh, looking for a place to sit down but found now. Instead he sat on the ground.

"Come, sit next to me, Connor we need to talk." Haytham patted a spot next to him. Connor shrugged and sat down in the lotus position. They sat in silence, watching the evening descended upon Boston. Cars blared their horns, they could smell the cooking from the restaurant and the exhaust of vehicles. Beneath it all, the faint sound of song birds. "So, this Aveline…" Haytham trailed off. "Is she a nice person?"

"Yes. She graduated last year," Connor said.

"Oh, so she's older, I see."

"She's going to study at the community college here, then move down to Louisiana."

"I see."

"She volunteers at the same animal shelter I do."

"Is that how you two met?"

"Yes."

Haytham nodded, pushing about the tiny pebbles. He wasn't sure ow to broach the topic with his son. He wasn't even sure if Ziio talked to Connor about… sex. "So, Connor… uh… what are your intentions with… Aveline?"

"We're just friend," Connor said, sounding defensive. "We like to hang out and do stuff together from time to time."

"Right, right. Of course." Haytham chewed his lip, remembering the traumatic experience of listening to his father explain the ins and outs of sex. "So, Connor. Son." Haytham placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "I need to talk to you about something.

There was a brief moment of silence followed by Connor muttering, "Okay."

"You are seventeen, and to be perfectly honest, I should've talked to you about this years ago instead of waiting until you are… until you… until you found yourself a lady friend." Haytham swallowed. "This is sound advice that my father gave me when I was fourteen. And you need to know this if you want to have… intercourse with a woman and—"

" _Raké:ni_ , _Ista_ she already talked to me about this."

"It's important to remember this so you don't end up with broken bones or ruptured organs. Not that I would know as I have been nothing but faithful to your mother since the time I was ten. But still… this is an important talk, man to man, father to son. A Kenway man tradition."

"Daaaad…."

"Don't," Haytham said, looking Connor in the eyes, "don't ever be one of those assholes that honk their car horns at women in short skirts. As my father told me the only think you ever need 'honk' is a woman's breasts _and only_ after, now this is the important part, you've obtain consent from the woman's who's breast you wish to honk."

"Oh dear God," Connor muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Now, you and your partner, and when I say partner, I don't mean just a woman. It can be a man too. I will support you fully if you are of the homosexual orientation or bisexual if you choose. Doesn't matter to me, so long as you are happy with whomever you choose."

"Father."

"But if you decide to part take in one of the Auditore boy's orgies, remember no more than eleven. According to my father you will be sore as hell the next day and it'll be extremely difficult to please everyone." Haytham took a deep breath. "Also, condoms. Always carry at least four condoms in your wallet if you ever need them."

"Dad, stop it," Connor said. Haytham looked at his son. Connor's cheeks were flushed. "Mom talked to me about this years ago. I know. I know."

"Oh." Haytham sighed. "I just thought… well, with you and Aveline."

Connor smiled. "I'm glad you're concerned, but honestly, we're just friends. I'll let you know if something important happens between us."

"I just want you to be careful, son," Haytham said. "We haven't talked in a while and I'm afraid that we've drifted apart."

"Summer starts next week. I'd love to go camping with you."

"Hmm… I'll see if I can't take some time off. I'm sure I have some unused vacation time."

"And I will tell you if my relationship with Aveline develops further," Connor said. "At least I didn't get anyone pregnant. Did you hear that Arno got François de la Serre's daughter pregnant?"

"Oh my."

* * *

 **Happy Birthday, MohawkWoman!**

 **Sorry its late. T_T School, life, general shit. Hope you enjoyed this.**

 **Save an author; leave a review.**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	71. Divide - Inktober Day 2

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

"We all make choices, but in the end our choices make us." — Ken Levine

* * *

Crackling lightning, the thunderous crack of stone splitting asunder; Élise heard him grunt, as he landed on his back, the heavy slab of stone pinning him to the ground, Germain flying to the opposite end of the chamber. "Arno!" she cried, running to him and moving the looser bits of rubble.

"I'm stuck." He was frantically trying to dig himself out as well.

Her heart thudded in her ears; she felt jittery, victory sweet on her tongue, he father's soul finally at peace. She grunted as she pushed away a particularly stubborn piece of stone with the vague shape of a cherub's butt-cheek. She froze when she heard a groan behind her. She and Arno stopped in their frantic attempt to free him. She looked over her shoulder. Against all odds, Germain staggered to his feet, head swiveling about as he got his bearings. He stumbled towards the depths of the chamber.

 _No no no no no no no!_ she bit her lip, divided at what to do. She glanced at Arno, his brown eyes wide, understanding her train of that. "No," he forced out, a tremor in his tone.

"I _can_ take him," she said.

"No, you can't! Not alone, he's too strong for you!" he said, trying to reach for her, a panicked look in his eyes. She shoved another piece of rubble off of him, before glancing back at Germain.

"He's getting away!" she squeaked, desperate to end this mad quest.

"He won't get away, Élise," Arno insisted, "I'm almost free."

She looked over her shoulder again, her heart beating a rapid tattoo against her chest. Time seemed to slow, memories flooded her mind. The balloon ride and Arno's hot kisses and husky moans as he settled himself between her legs. His confession, her impulsive kiss, meeting him again for the first time since revealing his involvement in her father's death, finding her father dead, her mother dead, meeting Arno for the first time.

The future that was within her grasp, a life with him, fulfilling Haytham Kenway's noble pursuit of forging peace between Templars and Assassins, being Arno's wife and bearing his children. It was all within her grasp, she just had to help Arno, get him free and they'll kill Germain together. _But he's getting away!_ Another voice hissed in her mind. She looked at him, feeling completely divided as he realized she had made her choice. For him, she'll let the tears she held back bleed through as she whispered her final words to him, hoping he heard the love she had for him in them. "I'm sorry."

She stayed for a heartbeat, still torn between freeing him or going after Germain. She pushed away, as she drew her sword running towards the man that killed her father, tears glistening in her eyes as Arno bellowed her name.

* * *

 **In my long standing battle to get writers recognized on the internet, I've taken to invading Inktober with literary arts. This is day two, Divide.**

 **Please enjoy and help get writes noticed!**

 **Save an author; leave a review!**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	72. A Revolutionary Date Night

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

Élise entered the Café Théâtre in a flurry of fiery red hair and billowing Templar sash. The café was packed, it was dinner time and one of the busiest hours of the day for the successful establishment. On stage, a comedy was going on, the waiters slipped gracefully around the people, giving them their food or whisking away plates. She looked around, trying to find Arno. She spotted him, up front and near the stage sitting at a table for two. He seemed relaxed, despite the apparently urgent nature of his request to see her. She walked up to him. "You have news about Germain? Another clue?" she asked, hand on the hilt of her sword. He smiled when he saw her.

"Élise, please sit." He gestured to the empty chair.

Huffing, she sat, putting her hands on the table. "What is going on?" It irked her that he was so nonchalant. They had taken down Madame Lévesque, had consummated their relationship in their impromptu getaway balloon, and now he had the gall to sit before her and act like nothing is wrong? That Paris wasn't eating itself from the inside out. What the hell had gotten into him, her hands balled into fists when he gave her his signature charming smile.

"I'm glad you could make it."

"You said it was urgent," she said. "What have you found? Tell me." She watched him pick up something from the floor. She growled.

"These roses are for the most beautiful woman in all of Paris," he said, smiling as he handed them to her.

Rolling her eyes, she took the flowers and gave them a sniff, then dropped them on the floor. "Do you have _any_ information on Germain?" she asked, ignoring his hurt look. The crowd burst into laughter at what happened on stage. She glanced at the crowd, finding them rather rude.

"No," he said. "Not anything new that we haven't learned from Madame Lévesque."

She stood up, picking up the flowers. "I see." She looked at the roses in her hand, red and white, a symbol of unity. Interesting choice, then again Arno had always been more conscious about things than she had. He was much more of a romantic. "Why did you call me here? Why did you tell me you had information?"

Arno opened his mouth to speak but the crowd's second round of laughter drowned him out. He sighed. "It doesn't matter. Go. I'm sorry. I'll speak to you when I have something related to Germain to tell you."

She looked at the red and white flowers, Arno's slumped shoulders and defeated look, a table set for two. Realization dawned on her, she reached out and took his hand. "I'm sorry Arno," she said. "I've just… I've been too focused on finding Germain, we're so close now."

"I thought you could use a break after what happened last night, I—" he cleared his throat. "Would you care to have dinner with me, Élise?"

"I'd be honored," she said, smelling the flowers again and setting them across her lap.

"You don't mind being this closer to the stage do you?" he asked, pointing to the stage behind him.

"Not at all, I'm more interested in you anyway," she said. "Did you get my note?"

One of the maids came over, beaming brightly at Arno. "You know what you want to order? Today's special is lentil soup, roasted pork in an apple sauce and boiled potatoes."

"That sounds good," Arno said, Élise nodded, the maid smiled and went back to the kitchen. "I hope you don't mind that—"

"It's fine," Élise said, waving her hand dismissively. "Food's scarce these days. I'm not picky." She chuckled. "Remember when we were children, and Father… well, you didn't know them at the time, but they were Templars; anyway, Father was hosting some Templars from England and he had the servants make steak and kidney pie."

"Oh, I do remember that!" he laughed. It was a rich sound, coming from his belly. She always loved it when he laughed, for it was always pure and made his eyes sparkle. The sound reminded her of happiness and warmth. "The cook must've not cleaned the kidneys properly for the entire pie tasted like cow piss."

"You puked and swore off eating kidney ever again." She shook her head as she remembered, baffled that they had come so far since the time when their worst fear was piss tasting steak and kidney pie. "Do you have any plans?" she asked. "For the future, I mean?" She watched as his cheeks bulged, too much wine filling his mouth, his eyes widening. "I'm sorry," she said, when he coughed after forcing himself to swallow. "It's just in your last letter… you, uh… you didn't say much."

"What's there to say," he muttered, cheeks tinting. "We will deal with the future when it arrives and until then I will focus on assisting you in finding Germain."

"Arno, why are you being evasive? This isn't like you. All I want to know is if you have plans for the future and am I—"

"Here you go," the maid said, setting down bowls of soup. "Fresh from the pot."

"Thank you, Philistine," Arno said, he began to eat, and Élise merely stared at him. She pouted and kicked him in the shin beneath the table. He jerked in surprise. "Ow."

"Answer me, Arno."

"Élise."

"After Germain is dead, will we still be together? What do you want out of life after my father has been avenged?" She looked at him, pleadingly. "I want us to remain Arno and Élise." She looked down at the roses in her lap, their sweet scent wafting up to her. The crowd laughed again, before clapping in approval. She looked up when she felt Arno's hand on hers.

"And we shall forever remain Arno and Élise," he said, bring her hand up to his mouth to kiss her fingers. "I promise."

"Arno—"

"Now eat, don't want you hungry," he said, letting go of her hand and going back to his own meal. Élise sighed, wondering why he was being so secretive with her. She knew it wasn't because he was an Assassin; she understood he knew things he couldn't tell her, just like she knew things she couldn't tell him. Yet, this had nothing to do with Templars and Assassins. It had purely everything to do with them, and he was hiding something.

She picked up the spoon and began to eat her soup. It was good, a rich beef broth with carrots, turnips, onions, and celery, the lentils cooked until tender. A peppery tasted lingered on her tongue and the warmth chased away the chill in her bones. "The soup's delicious."

"Andrée makes good food," Arno agreed. "I enjoy the spices she used. You know she was born a slave in Haiti and then when her master moved back to Paris, she was freed and found work here at the Café Théâtre."

"I didn't, that explains the zing," Élise said. Philistine came back with the plates of pork roast and boiled potatoes. She smiled at the maid as the woman set the rest of the meal down. She tackled the pork and potatoes once she had finished her soup. The pork had been well roasted, the fat completely rendered out, leaving the meat flavorful and juicy. Élise didn't care too much for the boiled potatoes.

Philistine came out again to take away the finished bowls and plates. "Dessert, monsieur?" she asked Arno.

"Élise?" Arno asked.

"No, not tonight," she said. Philistine gave a nod and left them in peace. "So, what now?" Élise asked, watching as Arno leaned back, lacing his hands over his stomach and a content look crossing his face.

"We could take in a place or we can go for a walk," he said, "I know the weather is cold but it's clear and walking will keep us warm."

"No," Élise said, standing up, "a walk will be refreshing." She held the roses, smiling at them. "You know I don't like flowers as gifts."

"I'm sorry but they were all out of pistols," Arno said, "so I settled on flowers." He held out his arm, and she looped hers through his with a laugh. She glanced back at the stage, the play was finishing up. She turned and glanced at Arno, smiling as she studied his face, her eyes tracing his scar. He never told her how he acquired it, and she feared asking him. She didn't mind it though, it added a rugged handsomeness to him. Scars covered his body, something she discovered last night as she mapped out his body with kisses and touches.

Resting her head on his bicep, they left the Café Théâtre. "Where are we going?" she asked, as he walked along a path only he knew, weaving them through the crowds of people on their way home from work or market.

"It's a surprise." He grinned, eyes twinkling. She huffed, shaking her head. He led her across Pont Marie. She wrinkled her nose at the stench of the Seine and the murky water made her stomach heave. As the entered the Marais, the once great fortress — the Bastille — loomed to their right, rising over the ruined ramparts one could still see serpentine trails of smoke. Élise noticed that Arno pointedly did not look at the Bastille.

"It's… different," she said, stopping to stare at the fortress. "I was in the crowd when it was being stormed. It used to be so imposing and terrifying" — she licked her lips — "I saw you jump off it."

"I had no choice." He gave a tug and they continued weaving between the buildings, but no matter how they tried the ruined citadel continued to loom over them, a testament to a once powerful aristocracy, now broken and crumbling at the hands of the rapid sanguinary mob.

They stepped into a square, the Bastille to their right and a church to their backs. The square wasn't particularly large, but it held a fair amount of people, a small stage for a traveling actor's troupe and a fountain. The sun was starting to set and cast nostalgic shadows. Élise shivered slightly. "You cold?" he asked.

"A little bit," she said, "look they're selling roasted chestnuts over there." She pointed to a small booth. "Let's get some." She slipped her arm from his and took his hand, leading him through the crowd to the stand. Arno stopped her, purchasing the chestnuts instead. They held the bag together to warm their chilled hands, before sitting down at the found.

"Careful," he said, pulling one out and handing it to her, "they're hot."

Accepting it with a giggle, she tossed it from hand to hand to cool it before she began to peel the hard outer shell, the fountain babbling behind them and the small crowd around the stage laughing. She looked over, grinning as she saw the performance involved making a fool of the King and Queen. "Remember when we were nine? Your first Christmas with us?" she asked.

"I do."

"We had _marron glacé_." She smiled at the memory, giggling a bit as she shook her hand to get a sliver of shell out from her beneath her nail. "You ate so many you ended up with a bellyache."

"Ah, yes." He laughed, peeling his chestnut easily. She forgot his hands were calloused from years of climbing. "My father couldn't afford to have candied chestnuts for Christmas, it was the first time I had them."

"You didn't have much as a boy, did you?" She got her chestnut freed, and broke part of the soft meat apart before popping it into her mouth.

"My father was an écuyer, nothing fancy really, though we were noblesse d'épée and noblesse ancienne."

"So was my family, and we could trace our family back four generations, at least. Father said the de la Serres were Templars back under Grand Master de Molay. We swore fealty oaths to the king before they sacked the Temple."

"Ah." Arno ate his chestnut. "My father didn't talk much about the family, probably because the Dorians had always sided with the Brotherhood."

"Seems our families have always been on opposite sides." The wind rippled her hair, and caused the trees to rustle their bare branches. She scooted closer to Arno, and he pressed his forehead against hers.

"Be my wife… please?" he whispered. Her eyes grew wide, her mouth opening slightly in surprise, and her cheeks heating. She wondered if he could hear the rapid tattoo of her heart against her ribs, and never had she realized what a warm rich brown his eyes were or that they had flecks of gold in them around his pupils.

"Arno…" she said, her voice almost lost in the sigh of the wind. A smile tugged at her lips, the chestnuts in her lap forgotten, as she snaked her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Yes, of course!" she said. "I love you."

"I love you too."

* * *

 **HAPPY BIRTHDAY BB!**

 **So sorry it's so late T_T please forgive me! Hope you enjoy it!**

 **Save an author; leave a review! ^o^**

 **Nemo et Nihil**


	73. Bonjour, mon amour

**Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft**

* * *

The sweet smell of petrichor filled her nose, birds sang sweetly in the garden and golden beams of early sunlight poured through the window. The rain had washed away most of the sewage that had collected in the streets, allowing the floral scent of the new flowers to drift in. People started heading to market, and the sounds of stalls setting up could be heard. Below, the café began to buzz with people coming in for breakfast.

Élise yawned, stretching and running a hand through her lose hair. Beside her Arno slept, long strains of his dark hair falling over his face, fluttering with each exhale. The blanket had fallen to his hip. He had a late night; coming home from a mission and then she insisted he make up for the time he was gone. Quietly, she slipped from bed, pulling on his discarded shirt and breeches and went to get some tea. She glanced back once more to watch Arno snuggle into the warm spot she had left behind. He mumbled in his sleep but didn't wake. She smiled, and left.

She returned a few minutes later, Arno still soundly asleep, and she shucked his breeches before she slipped back into bed. The tea was warm in her hands, and the twitter of birds pleasing to her ears. She loved the quiet early mornings, everything felt hopeful during this period. She took a sip, savoring the sweetness of vanilla. People didn't drink tea these days, too associated with the disposed aristocratic class. Yet, Arno would indulge her almost anything and his connections via the Assassins allowed him to import tea from Britain. She watched him sleep. He scratched his back near some scabs from an injury he acquired a few days ago.

Grinning, she pulled up her foot and ran her toes along his rump. He grunted, inching away. She giggled, poking him again with her foot, but this time in his calf. He inched away from her a bit more. She grinned, finishing her tea and setting it down. "Arno," she whispered, running her fingers lightly along his side. "Arno, wakey wakey," she cooed. "Time to get up."

He grumbled, pushing her way and pulling the blanket up over his shoulder. She laughed, clapping her hands and leaned over him again. "Come on, wakey wakey, the sun's shining it's going to be a nice day." She kissed him behind his ear. He grumbled, waving at her as if she was an irritating fly. She bounced on her knees, mirth bubbling up out of her. She poked him again, cooing at him to rise from his slumber. She squeaked when he reached out to grab her, jumping back, laughing and pushing her hair out of her eyes. She watched his hand, fingers drumming against the mattress. He was watching her from behind his hair, one eye open, calculating how he'll catch. "Come on, wake up," she said, inching closer and giving his shoulder a shove.

He reached for her, but she scooted back, sticking her tongue out. This was too much fun. "I'm going to catch you," he said, more or less awake now. "You know that right?"

"I'd like to see you try, _Assassin_ ," she teased, only to laugh when he huffed. "You're so cranky in the morning."

"I haven't had my coffee," he said, his hand inching closer to her leg. "Plus I had a late night, forgive me if I want some sleep."

"You need to stop being such a grouch," she teased, poking him in the chest. She heard him tsk, which caused her to giggle. "Wakey wake—" she yelped as he lunged, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her close, nuzzling her neck, his other arm looping around her shoulders to keep her pinned to his chest.

"Caught ya"— he kissed her cheek — " _Templar_." He purred into her ear. She shuddered, looking at him from the corner of her eye.

"You got lucky," she said, scrunching up her nose cutely. He patted her head.

"Now, go back to sleep."

"No."

"Yes."

"No." She tickled him, and he sucked in his stomach reflexively. She grinned, squirming free once his grip had slackened. She got out of bed, standing in the middle of the room. "How are you going to catch me now, Arno?"

"You're being a tease." She winked in reply. "You'll be the death of me woman," he said as he got out of bed, pulling on his breeches.

"It'll be a good death then." She batted her lashes. She rocked on the balls of her feet, hands behind her back. He stalked closer to her. The light brightened his pale skin, she could see the contours of his muscles beneath the downy chest hair. His shoulders large and broad from years of climbing Paris's tallest buildings, thighs lean and strong from jumping from one rooftop to another. He moved with the poise and grace of a jungle cat, the intensity of an eagle. It made her pulse quicken, her mouth dry, her legs weak and her loins ache. He tucked some hair behind his ear.

"Are you wearing my shirt?" he asked, giving her a bemused smile.

"And if I am?" she asked, fiddling with a button. She bit her lower lip, a come-hither look sparkled in her eyes.

"I want my shirt back," he said, folding his arms over his chest. She smirked when he licked his lips. He wanted her, she could see it in his eyes, how they smoldered.

"You're not getting it back," she said, sticking her tongue out at him. She couldn't resist taunting him. It made submitting to him that much sweeter. He chuckled.

"Is that a challenge?"

"What if it is? What are you going to do?" she asked, closing the gap between them. He pursed his lips together, bent his knees and looped his arm around her waist, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She squeaked, half in protest and half in mirth. "Arno Victor Dorian! You put me down right now!" she said, thumping her fists against his back.

"I don't think I will," he said and gave her exposed bottom a firm smack. "Besides, I'm taking back what's mine." He tossed her onto the bed, prowling over to her. She looked at him as he pinned her wrists above her head. He kissed her, pressing his hips against hers and she moaned.

"I thought you needed your morning coffee," she said, a smug smile on her face. He hummed, kissing her neck.

"Coffee can wait."

* * *

 **Here's another crappy fic.**

 **I would ask for some reviews, but I know none of you guys reading this give two fucking fucks so, yeah. whatever**

 **The Nihilistic Bitch**


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